REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 


THE    REVENUES 

OF 

THE  WICKED 

BY  WALTER   RAYMOND 

Author  of  "  Tryphena  in  Love  "  "  Young  Sam  and  Sabina  " 
"  The  Book  of  Simple  Delights,"  &c.,  &c. 


NEW    YORK 

E.    P.    DUTTON    &    CO 

1912 


In  the  house  of  the  righteous 

is  much  treasure: 

But  in  the  revenues  of  the  wicked 
is  trouble.    Proverbs  xv,  6. 


2137836 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I:  THE  REVENUE  OF  PROSPERITY 

Chapter  I  Page 

Hatchbarrow 3 

Chapter  II 

Shearing n 

Chapter  III 

The  Beacon  Head 26 

Chapter  IV 

The  Party 41 

Chapter  V 

Sweet  Moonlight 64 

Chapter  VI 

The  End  of  the  Party 69 

Chapter  VII 

John  and  Jane 73 

BOOK  II.  RETROSPECTION 
Chapter  I 

Retrospection 83 

BOOK  III.  THE  REVENUE  OF  DOUBTS  AND  FEARS 
Chapter  I 

Thomasine's  Diplomacy 125 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  II 

Deep  Soundings 136 

Chapter  III 

To  Netherton-Town 149 

Chapter  IV 

What  Philip  had  to  TeU 169 

Chapter  V 

Thomasine's  Return 172 

BOOK  IV.  THE  REVENUE  OF  TROUBLE 

Chapter  I 

Confessions ,     .     181 

Chapter  II 

The  Decision 198 

Chapter  III 

Thomasine  Tells 207 

Chapter  IV 

The  Surprise 218 

Chapter  V 

Discomfiture .     229 

Chapter  VI 

Humiliation 237 

Chapter  VII 

Once  More  the  Hearth 243 

EPILOGUE 249 


BOOK  I.  THE  REVENUE  OF  PROSPERITY 


The  Revenues  of  the  Wicked 

CHAPTER  I 
HATCHBARROW 

AN  evening  in  early  June. 

The  sun  hung  in  the  sky  above  a  rift  in  the 
horizon,  a  wood-clad  chasm,  through  which  a  hidden 
river  rushes  down  its  valley  between  two  moors. 
The  west  was  all  aglow — so  golden,  so  resplendent, 
that  the  distant  moorland  below  it,  fast  darkening 
into  shadow,  had  put  on  a  robe  of  purple,  richer, 
deeper  and  more  sumptuous  than  the  flower  of  the 
heather  yet  to  come. 

In  those  days  you  might  have  crossed  Eddyford 
Common  fifty  times  without  chancing  upon  any 
human  soul.  You  might  almost  do  the  same  to- 
day. And  yet  on  that  summer  afternoon,  as  cousin 
Jane  Peters  of  Eddyford  subsequently  affirmed,  the 
whole  country  "  did  seem  alive  wi'  folk."  Cousin 
Jane  Peters  had  never  in  ah1  her  life  seen  such  a  sight 
of  folk  not  all  to  one  minute — not  outside  of  a  town, 
of  course.  From  all  sides  people  were  coming ;  and 
when  cousin  Jane  Peters  afterwards  counted  them 
up  on  her  fingers,  she  could  swear  to  ten  at  the  very 
least.  Well,  she  waited  for  two  and  walked  on  in 

B  2 


4       THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

their  company.  She  did  not  wait  for  the  others 
because  "'twas  mostly  a  pa'cel  o'  giddy  maidens" 
and  the  rest  were  more  than  a  mile  off.  Under  such 
circumstances  it  was  not  to  be  expected.  She  waited 
for  Peter  Jay,  the  parish  clerk,  because  he  was  a 
staid  man  and  short  of  breath.  Perspiration,  ready 
and  profuse,  was  the  boast  of  cousin  Jane  Peters,  and 
on  the  way  to  a  party,  and  dressed  a  little  heavy  for 
the  season,  she  was  not  going  to  walk  herself  into  a 
bath  o'  sweat.  Not  likely.  And  she  waited  for  uncle 
Jeremiah  Brook,  as  of  course  anybody  would — he 
such  a  great  age,  in  his  long  white  beard  so  hand- 
some as  Moses  in  a  picture  Bible.  Besides,  uncle 
Jeremiah  Brook  was  lonely  in  life  and  with  money 
to  leave.  Thus  he  was  worthy  of  both  sympathy 
and  respect.  So,  one  behind  the  other  along  the 
uneven  track,  they  all  three  walked  on  their  way  to 
Hatchbarrow  very  comfortably  together. 

Cousin  Jane  Peters  was  an  ample  middle-aged 
spinster  in  a  coal-scuttle  bonnet  which  almost  hid 
her  comely  but  rather  commonplace  face,  and  a  gown 
which  was  really  a  springtime  of  bright  flowers. 

Peter  Jay,  except  that  no  cascade  of  black  cr£pe 
"  weepers  "  dropped  over  his  back,  was  dressed  for 
a  funeral,  as  was  usual  on  any  occasion  of  festivity. 

At  his  age  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook  did  not  waste 
money  on  new  clothes.  His  cloth  gaiters  were  sadly 
in  creases.  His  jacket  was  rusty  upon  the  shoul- 
ders. His  beaver  hat  showed  slight  but  unmistak- 
able symptoms  of  mange.  Uncle  Jeremiah  Brook 


HATCHBARROW  5 

had  no  need  of  vain  show  with  his  beard  and 
intellect. 

All  the  world  was  for  Hatchbarrow. 

As  we  also  have  to  get  to  Hatchbarrow  we  are 
lucky  to  fall  in  with  three  wayfarers  so  conversant 
with  that  household  and  so  competent  to  show  us 
the  way. 

"  I  must  speak,"  said  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook, 
whom  great  age  and  wisdom  were  for  ever  com- 
pelling to  adverse  criticism.  "  Of  all  God-forsaken 
places  in  creation,  Hatchbarrow  do,  to  my  mind, 
stand  the  most  alone." 

"  And  yet  always  look  pleasant,"  smiled  cousin 
Jane  Peters,  who  always  looked  pleasant  herself 
when  on  the  way  to  a  party. 

"  In  summer— do.  An'  in  winter — so  pleasant 
as  can,"  agreed  Peter  Jay. 

"  An'  though  so  lonesome  like — no  place  more  in 
sight.  For  mount  any  hill  for  miles  an'  look  about, 
in  the  right  direction  to  be  sure — there  is  Hatch- 
barrow." 

"  So  'tis." 

"An'  so  certain,  that  when  you  be  out  o'  sight 
in  a  coombe  or  a  valley,  you  do  seem  to  know  he's 
there." 

"  Now  don't  'ee  ?  "  reflected  Peter  Jay. 

"  You  do.  But  mind  John  Scutt  do  keep^the 
house  so  constant  whited." 

"  Keep  a  house  whited,  so  I've  a-heard  tell,  and 
for  witch  or  devil  'tis  the  go-by,"  said  the  parish  clerk. 


6       THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED         „ 

"  I  must  speak.  If  there  is  any  witching  o' 
Hatchbarrow  must  be  from  inside.  If  the  devil  do 
ever  go  there,  John  Scutt  must  ha'  squared  un 
somehow." 

"  Oh!  he've  a-squared  un  for  certain,"  said  Peter 
Jay,  who  not  being  a  relative  had  no  need  to  knuckle 
down  to  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook's  bit  of  money. 
"  He've  a-squared  the  devil  the  only  way  there  is. 
John  Scutt  do  work  harden'  act.  straight,  a  upright 
honest  man.  And  so  anybody  in  ,jjhis  parish  can 
tell  'ee." 

"  I  must  speak, ""'repeated  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook 
severely,  because,  after  all,  Peter  Jay  could  not  be 
called  a  man  of  property.  "You  do  show  heat. 
Peter  Jay — uncalled  for." 

"  An'  how  beautiful  Tamsin  really  do  keep  the 
front  wi'  her  flowers,"  interposed  cousin  Jane  Peters. 
"An'  the  early  roses  over  the  porch  an'  all." 

"  Now,  there,  'pon  my  word,  I  must  speak." 
Uncle  Jeremiah  Brook  showed  unmistakable  warmth 
himself  this  time.  "As  to  Tamsin,  to  my  mind, 
both  John  Scutt  and  Jane  do  not  only  talk  weak  but 
act  foolish." 

By  this  time  they  were  all  hot — cousin  Jane 
Peters  perspiring,  Peter  panting  and  uncle  Jeremiah 
Brook  burning  with  indignation.  So  they  came  to 
a  stop  on  the  hill  and  mopped  their  brows  as  they 
looked  at  Hatchbarrow. 

Standing  alone  on  a  hill-side  facing  the  south, 
remote  from  the  village  of  Eddyford,  to  which  parish 


%  HATCHBARROW  7 

it  belonged,  with  no  other  dwelling  in  sight,  the 
homestead  at  Hatchbarrow  looked  out  upon  a 
billowy  waste,  and  was  solitary  as  a  ship  at  sea. 
Yet  at  this  time  of  the  year,  in  spite  of  large  black 
patches  where  the  heather  had  been  burnt,  the 
moorland  was  not  sad,  hut  green  with  the  freshness 
of  young  bracken  and  spangled  with  clumps  of 
flowering  gorse. 

The  sunlight  had  pass$l  from  the  front  of  the 
house,  it  is  trua^but  it  still  shone  on  the  "  pointing- 
end,"  on  one  wall  of  the  great  porch,  on  the  sides  of 
the  chimneys  and  projecting  dormers.  It  gently 
marked  homely  and  unsuspected  undulations  of  the 
thatch  on  barn  and  shed — subtle  lines  and  curves 
not  to  be  distinguished  under  cloud  or  in  broad  day. 
The  single  window  in  the  gable,  the  pnly  one  that 
could  catch  a  gleam  of  the  sun,  glistened  like  a  gem. 
Also  the  trees,  which  sheltered  this  group  of  build- 
ings on  every  side  except  the  front,  like  a  hood 
around  a  human  face,  caught  something  of  the 
transitory  splendour.  Mostly  beech,  on  their  leaves 
still  lingered  a  memory  of  the  glossy  freshness  of 
spring.  But  intermingled  were  ancient  weather- 
beaten  firs  with  bare  stems  erect  and  straight.  High 
enough  to  catch  the  glance  of  the  sunset,  their 
twisted  weather-beaten  limbs  stood  out  red  and  grey 
from  the  masses  of  dark  foliage,  bright  as  glowing 
logs,  from  which  the  flame  had  departed,  against  a 
black  chimney  at  the  back  of  a^rmhouse  hearth. 
And  close  around  the  homestead  was  the  farm — 


8        THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

corn  grounds  and  fields  of  grass,  enclosed  by  high 
banks  walled  with  a  primitive  open  masonry,  moss- 
covered  and  shadowed  by  tall  overhanging  beech 
hedges.  The  wheat  was  green.  Fields  as  yet  un- 
cropped,  but  tilled  as  fine  as  garden  soil,  were  red. 
The  grass  was  growing  for  the  scythe.  This  patch 
of  cultivated  land  was  like  an  island  of  plenty  in 
a  broad  ocean  of  moor  and  waste. 

Such  is  the  picture  of  Hatchbarrow  seen  about  a 
hundred  years  ago  on  that  evening  early  in  June, 
at  the  moment  when  these  three  philosophers  stood 
and  gazed  at  it. 

"  Well !  What  a  place  is  to  your  own  mind — so 
'tis,"  said  cousin  Jane  Peters  with  unconscious  pro- 
fundity. 

"  An'  the  Creator  of  all  had  no  need  to  bestow 
every  gift  'pon  one  spot.  He  did  not  stint  room 
for  His  works.  Any  man  wi'  one  eye  can  see  that." 

"An'  the  heart  is  neither  sad  nor  lonesome  where 
there's  work." 

"  Ah !  Now  what  did  I  say  ?"  Peter  Jay  raised 
a  hand  to  demand  attention.  "  When  the  small- 
pox were  so  bad  in  parish  an'  folk  did  come  wi' 
'  Peter,  you  must  find  it  terr'ble  sad  so  much  diggen,' 
an'  what  did  I  tell  'em?  'Pity  a  poor  sexton,' 
said  I  '  what  can't  nourish  his  heart  wi'  sadness 
while  so  busy.' ' 

"  I  must  speak,"  said  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook.  "If 
'tis  your  "meaning  that  I  be  a  one-eyed  man  or  lazy, 
your  words  be  water  'pon  a  duck's  back." 


HATCHBARROW  9 

"  How  your  uncle  do  quacky,"  said  Peter  Jay. 

Happily  at  that  moment  other  wayfarers  came  up. 

Young  girls  from  the  village  on  foot  and  clad  in 
holiday  white  came  laughing  along  the  winding 
road  which  in  some  places  was  little  better  than  a 
rutty  track.  And  others  had  come  into  the  landscape 
whom  cousin  Jane  Peters  had  not  seen  in  the  first 
place.  Maidens  and  matrons  on  horseback  picking 
a  way  between  the  bright  green  bog  and  the  brown 
heather,  they  came  from  outlying  farms  on  diverse 
mounts,  rough  ponies  and  bony  old  mares  from  the 
plough,  with  the  company  frock  in  a  parcel  tied  to 
the  saddle  in  front.  What  matter,  so  long  as  they  got 
there  ?  Pride  there  was,  no  doubt,  but  no  room  for  a 
paltry  pride  amongst  these  moorland  folk.  The  two 
varieties  of  mankind  were  divided,  clear  to  sense 
as  land  and  water.  There  were  gentle  and  simple. 
One  man  saved  and  grew  rich,  another  wasted  and 
became  poor.  That  made  no  difference.  Neither 
could  the  Rubicon  be  crossed  by  the  one,  nor  the 
latter  drop  sifted  through  misfortune's  sieve.  All 
more  or  less  kin,  there  was  no  labouring  class.  The 
richest  laboured  in  the  fields,  and  the  women  also  at 
the  hay  and  the  harvest.  He  who  took  a  wage  earned 
it  of  his  neighbour  and  remained  none  the  less  a  friend. 

Now  and  then  a  two-wheeled  cart,  with  some 
old  "  gramfer,"  came  jolting  over  the  ruts,  but 
travellers  more  bent  on  mirth  you  never  could  see. 
They  hailed  each  other,  and  laughed  and  shouted 
time-honoured  jokes  across  the  ancient  moor. 


io     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

They  were  hastening  to  John  Scutt's  sheep- 
shearing  party.  And  why  this  wonder  to  see  the 
moorland  suddenly  peopled  with  old  men  and 
women  folk  ?  Have  you  not  heard  that  they  were 
sheepshearing  at  Hatchbarrow  ?  So  the  young  men 
were  already  there. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Peter  Jay  and  uncle 
Jeremiah  Brook,  choosing  the  coolest  and  most 
satisfactory  place  to  assuage  their  thirst,  strolled  out 
into  the  barton  to  watch  the  shearers  at  work. 


II 


CHAPTER  II 

SHEARING 

THE  barton — that  square  enclosure  bounded  by  the 
garden,  the  cowstalls,  the  stables  and  the  barn, 
which  townspeople  generally  call  the  farmyard — 
was  merry  with  the  sound  of  voices  mingled  with  the 
bleating  of  sheep. 

To  any  stranger  coming  to  Hatchbarrow  the 
barton  was  worth  a  glance. 

The  outbuildings,  although  sound  by  reason  of  the 
thickness  of  their  walls,  were  ancient  and  weather- 
beaten.  They  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
comfortable  appearance  of  the  well-kept  white- 
washed house.  The  stone  of  which  they  were  built 
was  of  a  rich  brown  mottled  with  greys,  and  the 
roofs  were  of  many  colours,  from  the  pale  yellow  of 
last  season's  reed  to  the  sombre  hues  of  a  crumbling 
thatch,  sodden  by  many  a  winter's  rain  and  half 
hidden  under  bright  green  moss  and  patches  of 
houseleek.  The  cowstalls,  empty  at  this  time  of 
the  year,  were  supported  by  round  stone  pillars. 
The  great  barn  was  buttressed,  and  a  gable,  sheltering 
a  shattered  pigeon-box  under  its  eaves,  projected 
from  the  roof  and  crowned  with  a  certain  dignity  its 


12       THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

lofty  doors.  Its  crumbling  stones  were  plentifully 
enriched  with  lichen.  Ferns  and  pennywort  were 
everywhere  growing  out  of  the  chinks.  And  on  the 
other  side  of  a  low  wall  rose  two  great  stacks  of 
purple  beech  faggots,  another  of  rich  brown  turf 
cut  on  the  moor  for  winter  firing,  and  a  double  row  of 
golden  mows  of  wheat  and  oats.  The  whole  place 
was  a  feast  of  colour  if  there  had  been  eyes  to  see  it. 
To  the  eyes  of  the  moorland  folk  the  buildings 
wanted  repairs.  The  stacks  were  interesting  merely 
as  to  number  and  size. 

And  yet,  so  wonderful  the  unsuspected  influences 
which  direct  and  misdirect  the  currents  of  human 
life,  the  mysterious  spirit  of  beauty,  residing  in  nooks 
and  corners  and  lurking  under  the  eaves  of  these 
decaying  buildings,  lay  at  the  beginning  of  the 
story  which  was  to  work  its  fulfilment  before  the 
wool  of  this  shearing  should  have  time  to  reach  the 
hands  of  the  weavers. 

This  evening  the  great  barn  doors  were  open. 
From  within  came  a  sound  of  clipping,  but  the  work 
was  just  drawing  to  a  close.  Over  a  thin  layer  of 
straw  a  winnowing-sheet  had  been  spread  on  the 
barn's  floor,  for  such  was  the  plan  for  the  shearing 
at  Hatchbarrow,  and  still  in  the  dim  of  the  building 
prostrate  ewes  and  kneeling  men  might  have  been 
seen.  But  the  last  of  the  flock  had  been  taken. 
As  he  finished  his  sheep  each  shearer  stood  upright, 
stretched  his  limbs  and  took  a  deep  breath  of  fresh 
air. 


SHEARING  13 

"  There  you  be  then,  Mr.  John  Scutt." 

"  Aye,  there  you  be,  John  Scutt." 

Thus,  one  after  another,  each  signified  that  the  j  ob 
was  done.  Very  quickly  a  various  group  of  young 
and  middle-aged,  though  all  in  duck  once  white  but 
now  dirty  and  yelk-stained,  gathered  around  a  stout 
thick-set  man  of  less  than  middle  height  and  drawing 
towards  three  score  years  of  age,  who  stood  by  the 
barn's  door  just  off  the  winno wing-sheet. 

"  There  you  be  then,  Mr.  John  Scutt." 

His  shirt  sleeves  rolled  above  his  elbows  left  bare 
a  pair  of  hairy  muscular  arms  hard  and  brown  as 
oak.  The  short  fingers  of  his  left  hand  clutched  an 
almost  empty  pitch-kettle.  In  the  right  he  held 
an  iron  with  which  to  place  a  brand  upon  his  sheep. 
His  face  was  square  and  his  jaw  deep.  His  eye- 
brows of  a  ruddy  brown  colour  were  straight  and 
low,  but  so  coarse  and  bristly  that  they  projected 
like  eaves  above  his  grey  eyes  and  prominent  cheek- 
bones. His  hair  was  red,  though  scarcely  of  the 
violent  hue  that  could  give  him  a  claim  to  be  called 
"  carroty-headed,"  and  it  was  abundant.  He  had 
been  too  busy  to  shave  for  a  couple  of  days.  A 
rusty  stubble  covered  his  chin  and  long  upper  lip 
and  encroached  far  in  upon  his  broad  cheeks.  So 
that  in  his  ragged  waistcoat,  his  old  cord  breeches 
creased  and  stained  with  pitch,  his  gaiters  that  here 
and  there  wanted  a  button,  he  was  not  altogether 
a  prepossessing  figure,  and  a  stranger  might  have 
wondered  at  the  rough  deference  paid  him  by  those 


14      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

around.  For  although  the  flock  was  his,  the  shearers 
were  no  hirelings,  but  neighbours  from  the  village  or 
the  homesteads  scattered  far  apart  upon  the  moor.  In 
those  old  days,  of  about  a  century  ago,  the  work  of  the 
farm  had  not  been  severed  from  the  social  life  of  the 
neighbourhood.  The  harvest  of  the  fleece  was  one 
of  the  j  oiliest  seasons  of  the  year.  The  party  of 
shearers  went  from  farm  to  farm,  and  each  day's 
work  was  followed  by  a  supper,  after  which  dance 
and  song  did  not  cease  until  after  daybreak. 

All  the  clipping  had  ceased  except  from  one  pair 
of  shears. 

"  Come  on,  young  Isaac.  Bring  her  on.  Hold 
fast  a  minute." 

"  There  you  be  then,  Mr.  John  Scutt." 

"  Just  off  the  win-sheet !  That's  it,"  said  he  of 
the  pitch-kettle  in  short,  impatient  sentences. 

The  young  shearer  dragged  the  ewe  forward  and 
held  her  fast. 

John  Scutt  set  his  mark — a  large  letter  S  with  a 
perpendicular  stroke  through  it — on  her  panting  side. 

The  others  watched  in  silence  and  intently,  as 
though  this  familiar  thing  were  new  to  them,  as 
country  people  will.  It  took  time,  for  the  pitch  was 
getting  cold  and  scarcely  enough.  The  iron  was 
applied  several  times  and  still  the  mark  was  indis- 
tinct. 

"  There !  That  must  do,  young  Isaac,"  cried  the 
owner  at  last  in  a  tone  of  discontent  with  a  job  not 
over  neat. 


SHEARING  15 

Young  Isaac  released  his  hold.  The  ewe  scam- 
pered, bleating,  to  rejoin  the  flock  huddled  in  the 
further  corner  of  the  yard  beside  the  gate,  and  John 
Scutt's  shearing  was  at  an  end. 

"So  there's  another  lot  done,"  cried  the  young 
Isaac,  wiping  his  shears  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  as  he 
stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  group  of  neighbours. 

The  moorland  men  were  mostly  tall  and  straight. 
They  came  of  a  quicker,  more  nimble-minded  race 
than  their  distant  neighbours  in  the  rich  vales  to  the 
east  of  the  hill  country.  Even  to-day  their  speech 
bewrayeth  them,  and  although  their  voices  are  often 
harsh  their  dialect  retains  the  softer  vowel  sounds 
of  the  Celt.  Toiling  and  struggling  from  daybreak 
to  dark  against  bitter,  snow-bound  winters,  and 
summers  often  wet,  they  lived  a  hard  life.  With 
each  other  dry  and  rough,  as  the  bark  on  the  young 
oaks  in  the  copses,  strangers  nevertheless  remarked 
upon  a  natural  courtesy  quite  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate. They  loved  their  country — understood  it  and 
nothing  else.  It  was  noticed  that  any  who  went 
away  always  did  well.  But  few  left.  They  were 
at  home  on  the  hills  and  the  moorland  with  the 
ponies  and  the  sheep. 

As  fine  a  show  of  stalwart  youth  as  eyes  could 
wish  to  rest  upon  stood  in  John  Scutt's  barton  that 
evening,  yet  the  young  Isaac  Cledworth  outdid  the 
tallest  in  height  by  at  least  two  inches.  He  was 
thin  but  wiry  and  muscular,  sandy-haired  and 
freckled,  with  quick  grey  eyes  having  more  fight 


16      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

than  kindness  in  them.  Nature  had  bestowed  on 
him  a  countenance  of  less  distinction  than  the  well- 
featured  faces  round  him — a  round  head,  rather 
small,  and  a  short  truculent  nose.  Yet  young  Isaac 
Cledworth  was  a  celebrity,  and  both  for  cudgel- 
playing  and  wrestling  his  fame  was  known  for  half  a 
dozen  counties  round.  He  had  a  way  of  shouting 
statements  of  universally  accepted  fact  with  an  air 
of  defying  contradiction.  And  he  paid  marked 
deference  to  the  man  with  the  pitch-kettle  and  spoke 
his  name  in  a  lower  and  softer  tone  of  voice. 

"  Ay !  The  biggest  flock  an'  the  best — that's  Mr. 
John  Scutt's  o'  Hatchbarrow." 

"  And  that's  no  lie,"  responded  Peter  Jay  as 
solemnly  as  if  he  had  been  in  church. 

"  And  the  heaviest  shear  this  summer  sheep  for 
sheep — that's  Mr.  John  Scutt's  o'  Hatchbarrow." 

"  An'  that's  gospel  truth." 

"  An'  I'll  bet  any  man  a  guinea  he  can't  ride  half 
a  mile  anywhere,  from  one  end  to  t'other  o'  Eddy- 
ford  Common,  but  he'll  meet  wi'  a  big  S  wi'  a  skiver 
down  his  back — for  that's  Mr.  John  Scutt's  o' 
Hatchbarrow." 

"  An'  that's  a  solemn  fac'." 

A  murmur  of  universal  corroboration  passed 
round  the  company,  as  if  the  congregation  had  sud- 
denly aroused  itself. 

"  A  solemn  fac'.     So  'tis.    A  solemn  fac'." 

At  the  mention  of  his  wealth,  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  as  of  a  serious  man  impatient  with  the  empty 


SHEARING  17 

tattle  of  giddy-headed  youth,  Mr.  John  Scutt  had 
stepped  a  little  aside.  He  pulled  a  tuft  of  rough 
grass  from  the  corner  between  an  upping-stock  and 
the  garden  wall,  and  stood  wiping  and  rubbing  stains 
of  pitch  from  his  fingers.  For  a  reason  known  to 
himself  the  young  Isaac  was  no  favourite  with  him. 
But  he  hated  any  talk  of  his  riches,  and  when  the 
weight  of  the  fleeces  was  spoken  of  he  snorted  a 
contemptuous  "  Pooh !  Pooh !  " 

Suddenly  he  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder  and 
asked  sharply: 

"  Have  'ee  found  my  sheep  any  too  many  for  'ee, 
young  Isaac  Cledworth  ?  " 

The  question  had  a  double  meaning.  Big  flock 
or  little  the  shearing  was  done  by  neighbours  with- 
out pay,  and  the  only  recompense  was  a  liberal 
hospitality.  The  young  man  was  most  eager  to 
disclaim  any  such  meaning. 

"  Not  a  fleece,  Mr.  John  Scutt." 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  did,"  was  the  reply,  spoken 
in  the  short  manner  of  one  who  intends  to  rebuke. 

"  I  must  speak,"  said  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook.  "  I 
do  not  think  any  such  thing  was  meant  or  intended." 

With  that  the  conversation  would  have  closed  had 
not  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth  seen  fit  to  put  in  a 
word  or  so  in  support  of  his  son. 

The  old  Isaac  Cledworth  was  a  little  red-faced 
man  with  a  wrinkled  forehead  below  what  is  some- 
times euphemistically  called  "  a  broad  parting  " — 
that  is  to  say,  a  highway  of  baldness,  in  his  case 


18      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

passing  between  two  rough  hedgerows  of  unkempt 
grey  hair.  For  the  moment  his  complexion  threat- 
ened apoplexy.  This  was  not  the  result  of  excite- 
ment or  the  spirit  of  argument,  but  because  the  old 
Isaac  Cledworth  was  doing  his  best,  and  that  a  poor 
one,  to  balance  himself  on  one  leg. 

The  old  Isaac  Cledworth  was  one  of  those  restless 
spirits  who  must  always  be  a-doing,  always  "  a-pro- 
jecking  "  and  trying  to  think  of  some  new  dodge.  A 
man,  as  the  saying  is,  with  a  maggot  in  his  brain. 
Most  of  the  shearers  had  a  change  in  the  barn.  The 
old  Isaac  Cledworth  started  of  a  morning  ready  in 
his  second-best  suit.  In  eager  anticipation  of  the 
feast  he  was  already  divesting  himself  of  a  pair  of 
duck  trousers  by  dragging  them  over  his  hob-nailed 
boots — a  precarious  and  unstable  operation  for  any 
man  who  for  hours  has  been  bent  two-double  like  a 
hinge,  and  has  only  managed  to  avoid  permanent 
stiffness  by  the  regular  use  of  an  internal  lubrication, 
of  which  the  active  principle  was  malt.  After  all, 
a  man  is  neither  a  barn-door  fowl  nor  a  parrot  on  a 
perch.  And  nothing  will  more  enrich  a  man's  com- 
plexion than  a  maggot  in  the  skull,  which  has  been 
encouraged  and  refreshed  by  frequent  regular 
libations  of  home-brewed. 

Below  a  pair  of  neat  cord  breeches  with  flat  brass 
buttons  at  the  knees,  he  at  last  discovered  a  pair  of 
blue-grey  worsted  hose. 

Such  was  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth,  a  near  neighbour 
to  John  Scutt,  for,  although  his  was  a  scattered 


SHEARING  19 

holding,  some  of  the  fields  adjoined  the  land  of 
Hatchbarrow. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  John  Scutt,"  cried  he.  "Don't 
you  think  that.  Such  a  thought  was  never  in  the 
boy's  mind.  Work  or  skill,  let  every  man  get  and 
hold  so  much  as  he  can — that's  my  maxim.  Some  be 
luckier  'an  some — or  born  wi'  more  headpiece — an' 
you  be  both  o'  it.  For  'tis  wonderful,  an'  so  'tis 
what  you  have  a-bin  able  to  do,  an'  all  praise " 

He  paused,  for  the  second  refractory  trouser-leg 
parted  unwillingly  from  the  hobnails,  stood  upright 
and  added: 

"  An'  all  praise  to  'ee  for  it,  Mr.  John  Scutt." 

This  commendation,  however,  pleased  John  Scutt 
no  better  than  the  others.  With  growing  impa- 
tience he  threw  his  tuft  of  grass  upon  the  ground. 
It  had  only  added  green  to  the  pitch  stains. 

"Pooh!  What  I've  a-got,"  said  he,  shortly, 
"  I've  a-worked  for  an'  put  by." 

Others  of  the  company  added  each  his  humble 
contribution  of  wit  and  wisdom. 

"  We've  all  a-worked — more  or  less." 

"  I  must  speak.     You  ha'n't  all  put  by." 

"  An'  after  all,  bear  in  mind  this.  Mr.  John 
Scutt  have  only  had  one  to  bring  up." 

"  An'  old  Isaac  here  was  so  greedy  of  offspring. 
How  many  was  it,  Isaac — a  score  an'  one  ?  " 

"  An'  children  when  their  bellies  do  pinch  be  like 
stock  'pon  common  when  keep  do  run  short.  They 
do  come  home  to  door  an'  blarey." 

C  2 


20      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  But  look  here.  Old  Isaac  never  laid  out  so 
much  'pon  his  score  as  Mr.  John  Scutt,  by  all  ac- 
counts, have  a-spended  'pon  his  one." 

"  But  there  is  stock  you  do  know  that  don't  pay 
a  man  for  doing  so  extra  well." 

"  An'  Isaac  is  a  very  knowledgeable  man." 

"  But  Mr.  John  Scutt's  Tamsin  now — she — well, 
she " 

"  I  should  dearly  love  to  cast  eyes  'pon  the  sweet 
pretty  face  o'  Tamsin  now,"  drawled  Peter  Jay. 

At  once  arose  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  the  com- 
pany, one  after  another,  began  to  call  for  "  Tam- 
sin." "  Come  on,  Tamsin."  "  Where  be  Tam- 
sin? "  with  such  a  boisterous  hilarity  that  the  old 
sheep-dog  came  out  from  behind  the  upping- 
stock  and  spoke,  and  the  sheep  huddled  closer  still 
into  the  corner. 

The  truth  is  for  the  twentieth  time  that  afternoon 
Tamsin  had  been  sent  to  the  cellar.  At  the  mention 
of  her  name  the  father  of  Tamsin  cast  aside  his  mood 
of  impatience  and  joined  his  voice  to  this  banter. 
Speaking  always  in  his  rough  short  manner,  but  now 
with  a  thorough  good  humour,  his  voice  softened 
into  a  certain  tone  of  apology — not  for  himself,  of 
course,  but  for  Tamsin. 

"  Well,  where  can  our  Tamsin  have  got  to  ?  I 
tell  'ee  what  'tis,  neighbours.  As  one  o'  'ee  said 
just  now,  when  the  keep  do  run  short  on  common 
all  your  stock'll  come  up  to  gate  an'  blarey.  You 
be  dry,  so,  like  the  bullocks,  you  do  cast  eyes  across 


SHEARING  21 

to  door  an'  blarey.  But  where  is  Tamsin?  Tarn- 
sin!  Tis  a  fresh  cask,  neighbours.  I  reckon  the 
tap  is  slow  to  run.  For  our  Tamsin  is  no  slug  by 
nature.  Tamsin!  Oh!  Here  she  is,  then.  Here 
is  our  Tamsin." 

As  he  spoke  a  girl  of  about  twenty  came  out  of 
the  homestead  porch  and  along  the  garden  path 
towards  the  gate.  From  her  neck  to  below  her 
skirt  she  was  covered  in  a  "  pinny  "  of  light  blue 
that  hung  as  straight  as  a  smock.  But  the  sleeves 
were  short,  leaving  her  arms  bare  from  above  the 
elbow.  She  moved  slowly,  taking  short  and  careful 
steps,  for  she  carried  a  large  vessel,  holding  it  before 
her  with  both  hands.  It  was  of  the  shape  of  a  jug 
but  built  of  oaken  staves  and  banded  like  a  tub  or 
a  bucket.  As  well  as  a  handle  it  had  a  wooden  lip 
for  pouring,  by  which  Tamsin  steadied  it,  her  eyes 
intently  watching  all  the  while,  for  such  a  mountain 
of  froth  rose  above  the  brim  that  she  could  not  see  the 
liquor. 

Young  Isaac  ran  to  open  the  gate. 

"  Let  me  take  it,"  said  he  as  she  passed 
through. 

"  I  can  carry  it  well  enough  myself,  thank  you," 
replied  Tamsin  without  stopping. 

At  this  the  shearers  laughed. 

"  That's  the  go-by  for  you,  young  Isaac." 

"  Tamsin — why,  she  wouldn't  look  at  Isaac." 

"  Not  likely.     Tamsin's  a  lady." 

"  An'  do  visit  wi'  the  gentry." 


22      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  But  that's  nothing  but  right  in  the  bad  weather. 
Tamsin  being  so  delicate  like." 

"  An'  her  father  next  kin  to  a  squire,  by  all 
accounts." 

"  I  must  speak,"  said  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook. 
"  At  such  a  time  this  is  uncalled  for." 

Then  they  all  laughed  again.  The  banter  of 
Eddyford  was  unrestrained  but  good-humoured. 

The  girl,  perhaps  conscious  of  being  suspected 
of  now  and  then  giving  herself  airs,  blushed  and 
looked  vexed.  But  old  Isaac  Cledworth,  with  a  wink 
to  the  rest,  stepped  forward  and  met  her  half-way 
between  the  garden-hatch  and  the  barn. 

"  Let's  have  it,  Tamsin,  my  child,"  he  coaxed. 

Glad  at  heart  to  be  relieved,  Tamsin  gave  it  up 
with  a  smile,  whereat  the  shearers  laughed  the 
louder  and  the  face  of  young  Isaac  fell  as  dark  as  a 
thunder-cloud.  But  nobody  had  time  to  take  note 
of  that.  Peter  Jay  had  already  run  to  fetch  the 
drinking-horns  from  the  barn.  They  closed  around 
the  old  Isaac  and  watched  and  waited  their  turns 
whilst,  with  respectful  care,  he  poured  out  the 
strongest  of  the  Hatchbarrow  brew. 

"  Don't  be  long,  father.  Everything  is  ready, 
and  for  certain  everybody  has  come.  You'll  find  a 
pat  of  butter  in  the  back-house  to  get  off  the  pitch. 
I've  put  your  things  on  the  bed.  And  mother  will 
carry  up  your  hot  water  to  shave.  Make  haste,  all 
of  you.  And  to  save  time  I'll  go  and  turn  out  the 
sheep." 


SHEARING  23 

The  voice  of  Tamsin  was  low  and  musical.  Her 
speech  betrayed  scarcely  a  trace  of  dialect,  only  the 
gentle  modulation  that  even  to-day  makes  some 
simple,  old-fashioned  utterance  as  pleasant  as  a  song. 

"  That's  right,  Tamsin,"  cried  old  Isaac  Cledworth 
merrily.  "  Keep  your  father  up  to  your  mark.  See 
to  it  he  do  get  the  good  o'  your  schoolen." 

"  Oh,  ay,  neighbour,"  agreed  Mr.  John  Scutt, 
now  thoroughly  delighted  with  the  old  Isaac's 
humour.  "  Our  Tamsin  do  keep  an  eye  'pon  father. 
Do  this.  Leave  off  that.  'Nother  shirt.  Clean 
collar.  I  must  do  as  I  be  bid."  Then  he  glanced 
at  Tamsin  with  pride.  "  Get  on,  then,"  he  said, 
with  an  assumed  air  of  reluctant  yielding  to  the 
whim  of  a  spoilt  child. 

The  girl  fetched  from  the  shed  a  rough  moorland 
pony,  ready  saddled,  and  led  him  by  the  bridle  to 
the  stone  upping-stock.  The  wise-looking  old 
sheep-dog,  who  had  just  now  slunk  back  to  his 
nook  when  he  found  the  noise  was  only  frivolity, 
hearing  the  sound  of  hoofs,  came  out  of  his  corner. 
This  time  it  was  business.  He  stood  ready,  slowly 
wagging  his  tail.  She  mounted  the  steps,  and, 
without  the  security  of  a  pommel  or  even  troubling 
to  place  her  foot  in  the  stirrup,  sat  erect  and  at 
home,  whilst  the  little  horse  tossed  his  head  with 
pride  to  find  her  on  his  back. 

Her  father  strode  across  the  barton  before  them, 
opened  the  gate  and  turned  the  sheep  into  a  short 
lane  leading  to  the  common. 


24      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

The  shearers  stood  gazing  at  all  these  proceedings 
in  the  same  old  silent  way,  as  they  drank  in  turn, 
refilled  and  passed  round  the  drinking-horn.  There 
are  certain  brews  the  contemplation  of  which  the 
wise  do  not  interrupt  with  conversation. 

In  the  last  gleam  of  the  sunset  Tamsin  rode 
slowly  towards  the  moor.  She  was  not  tall,  but  her 
slight  figure  gave  her  an  appearance  of  more  than 
middle  height.  In  the  slanting  light,  the  backs  of 
the  newly  shorn  flock  in  front  of  her  gleamed  white  as 
silver,  and  for  the  moment  the  rusty  coat  of  the 
undipped  pony  shone  like  burnished  copper.  But 
Tamsin' s  head  was  bright  as  the  edge  of  one 
of  the  fleecy  clouds  scattered  on  the  soft  pellucid 
sky  above,  which,  catching  something  of  the  glory 
of  the  passing  sun,  seemed  to  float  like  golden 
islands  on  an  emerald  sea. 

Even  the  rough  moorland  folk  must  have  been 
dimly  conscious  of  something  in  Tamsin  different 
from  themselves — of  a  romance  and  beauty  beyond 
anything  that  entered  into  their  hard  and  homely  lives. 
Peter  Jay,  the  parish  clerk,  one  of  \he  first  on  earth 
to  call  when  the  jug  ran  low,  forgot  to  drink  and 
spoke  with  the  foaming  cup  arrested  not  three  inches 
from  his  lips. 

"  I  tell  'ee  what  'tis,  Mr.  John  Scutt,  you  be  no 
beauty,  you  know — not  you  yourself.  Not  one,  as 
I  should  say,  for  the  show  ring.  No.  You  be  not. 
Now,  that's  flat.  An'  as  for  Jane,  well,  there !  You 
chose  her.  You  wed  wi'  her.  She's  your  missus. 


SHEARING  25 

So  tidden  for  I  to  speak.     But  your  Tamsin — there 
— she  really  is  so  neat  an'  so  pretty  as  a  flower." 

"  She  is,"  said  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth,  his  head 
on  one  side,  with  the  air  of  a  critic.  "  An'  so  quick 
as  a  bird — by  that  I  do  mean,  if  I  may  so  speak,  so 
bright  in  her  intelleck  like.  Different  to  folk  here- 
about. But  all  that  I  do  allow,  she  learned  to  the 
boarden  school." 


26 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  BEACON  HEAD 

TAMSIN  passed  slowly  out  of  view. 

What  with  serving  the  shearers  since  early  morn- 
ing and  preparation  for  the  party  in  the  evening  she 
had  spent  a  busy  day.  Now  everything  was  ready 
and  only  waited  whilst  the  men  just  cleaned  them- 
selves and  slipped  into  their  dancing  clothes.  The 
shade  of  the  leafy  hedgerow  was  cool  and  refreshing, 
and  Tamsin  could  well  spare  a  few  minutes  to  loiter. 
So  the  pony  dropped  into  his  most  deliberate  pace. 
The  sheep  spread  into  the  ditch  to  get  a  bite  of 
grass  as  they  passed,  or  climbed  the  bank  to  pull  a 
leaf  from  some  ivy-covered  trunk. 

The  coming  festivity  aroused  in  the  heart  of 
Tamsin  no  joyful  anticipation.  Amongst  the  rela- 
tives and  young  farmers  she  had  found  no  acceptable 
sweetheart,  nor  was  she  looking  for  one,  like  most  of 
the  village  girls  who  had  come  tripping  to  Hatch- 
barrow  that  afternoon.  It  was  part  of  the  life  into 
which  she  had  been  born — a  life  in  which  idyllic 
simplicity  was  shaken  together  with  coarseness  and 
brutality  like  mixed  corn  and  chaff  in  a  measure. 
But  a  strange  fate  had  early  taken  Tamsin  by  the 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  27 

hand  to  lead  her  into  quiet,  pleasant  fields  remote 
and  different  from  the  rugged  wildness  of  Eddy- 
ford  and  the  moor.  Always  she  came  back  as  out  of 
dreams  into  reality.  Then,  again,  the  dreams  were 
the  only  true  thing,  and  some  of  the  surrounding  life 
little  better  than  a  nightmare.  Tamsin  hoped  and 
prayed  that  things  might  go  well  that  evening.  But 
the  fact  is  the  guests  at  Hatchbarrow  were  apt  to 
get  a  great  deal  too  wild  and  noisy. 

For  the  moment  everything  was  still  and  calm. 
The  wind  had  scarcely  breath  enough  to  rustle  the 
beech  leaves.  She  need  not  hurry.  She  stopped, 
lifted  her  blue  pinny  and  from  her  pocket  drew  a 
little  three-cornered  note.  Then  Tamsin  read. 
Every  word,  every  syllable  she  knew  by  heart.  Yet 
Tamsin  read.  And  Tamsin  sighed.  And  the  cheeks  of 
Tamsin  reddened  as  the  evening  cloudlets  overhead 
had  already  done  even  since  she  rode  out  of  the  barton. 

Suddenly  she  lifted  her  head  and  listened. 

Was  there  still  a  visitor  upon  the  road?  Yes. 
Her  ear  could  distinctly  catch  the  dull  thud  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  soft  peaty  earth  of  the  common. 
She  hastily  thrust  the  letter  out  of  sight.  It  would 
be  just  as  well  to  get  her  flock  through  the  gate  first, 
instead  of  having  to  pass  this  late-comer  in  the 
narrow  lane. 

"  Speak  to  them,  Brin !  " 

They  were  quickly  at  the  lane's  end. 

As  Tamsin  was  picking  her  way  to  the  front  of  her 
sheep,  she  caught  sight  of  the  approaching  horseman 


28      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

cantering  between  distant  clumps  of  yellow  gorse. 
It  was  no  belated  guest.  A  young  man,  well  dressed 
—  a  gentleman,  on  a  horse  well  cared  for.  Before 
she  could  identify  him  he  dropped  out  of  sight  in  a 
hollow  of  the  moor.  Again  he  mounted  the  ridge, 
saw  her  and  quickened  his  pace.  Preoccupied  with 
her  sheep,  Tamsin  found  scarcely  time  to  look  up, 
until  he  was  quite  close. 

He  waved  his  hat. 

She  stopped — stared  in  wonder — then  cried  out  in 
surprise : 

"Philip!" 

"  Thomasine !  " 

He  dismounted — was  hurrying  towards  her. 

But  Tamsin  held  up  her  hand. 

"  Stop !    Stop !    Let  the  sheep  run  through  first !  " 

He  drew  back,  laughing  merrily. 

"  Come  along,  then.     Make  haste,  Shepherdess!  " 

She  held  open  the  gate.  The  old  dog,  at  the  tail 
of  the  flock,  gave  a  bark.  Like  a  torrent  let  loose, 
the  sheep  ran  away,  to  scatter  amongst  furze  and 
heather,  and  Tamsin  was  free. 

"  Oh,  Thomasine !  What  luck !  'Tis  more  than 
I  could  have  hoped  for,  dearest,  to  meet  you  alone 
like  this." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  lifted  her  from  the  pony 
and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

The  girl  cast  an  anxious  glance  at  each  winding 
track  across  the  moor,  then  over  her  shoulder  down 
the  lane  by  which  she  had  come. 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  29 

Then  followed  a  hurried  whispered  explanation. 

"  Will  any  one  pass  this  way  ?  " 

"  You  can't  be  sure.  'Tis  our  shearing.  But,  for 
certain,  by  this  time,  all  that  are  coming  must  have 
come." 

"  I  knew  you  were  shearing." 

"  Then  you  were  coming  to  the  party  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Marshall  sent  me  because  it  was  certain 
your  father  would  be  at  home." 

"  Then  you  were  coming  on  business  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  arranged  about  Hatchbarrow,  Tho- 
masine.  There  is  but  one  point  to  settle." 

"  For  father  to  buy  it  ?  "  asked  Tamsin,  eagerly. 

"  Yes.  They  have  virtually  accepted  Mr.  Scutt's 
offer — after  all  their  higgling." 

"  Then  Hatchbarrow  will  be  our  own  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  will  be  glad." 

"  Why,  Thomasine,  you  will  be  such  an  heiress 
that  I- 

She  interrupted  him  with  shy  impatience,  which, 
nevertheless,  blushed  a  plea  for  toleration  with  so 
absurd  a  sensibility.  "  Don't,  Philip,  say  that  sort 
of  thing.  It  troubles  me."  Yet  the  beaming  face 
of  Tamsin  betrayed  her  pleasure.  After  all,  there  is 
great  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  one's  father 
is  prosperous,  has  bought  a  freehold  estate  and 
henceforth  will  till  his  own  land. 

"  There  is  just  time  for  the  Beacon,"  he  begged  of 
her. 


3o      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 
"  Supper  is  laid.     They  were  getting  ready  to  go 


in- 


"  But  we  see  each  other  so  rarely,  Thomasine." 
"  Mother  will  be  calling.     They  will  miss  me,"  she 
hesitated. 

"  Come,  darling.     Just  for  a  minute.     Come." 
What  did  she  care  if  they  waited  and  called  ?     So 
long,  that  is,  as  none  guessed  the  cause  of  the  delay. 
Once  more  she  glanced  around.     Everywhere  upon 
the  moor  was  an  unbroken  solitude. 
"  Come,  then." 

He  hf  ted  her  into  the  saddle.  She  gave  her  pony  a 
pat  upon  the  neck,  turned  his  head  from  home  and 
trotted  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees  into  a  deep 
hollow  cut  in  the  hillside  by  a  brook  which  dwindled 
in  summer  to  the  merest  rill.  The  banks  were  high 
and  they  were  out  of  sight.  The  gap  was  bestrewn 
with  rocks.  But  Tamsin  led  the  way  by  a  crooked 
track  made  by  the  wild  ponies,  avoiding  all  treacher- 
ous patches  of  bright  green  moss  flecked  with  the 
white  down  of  cotton  grass.  So  they  mounted  the 
steep  to  the  head  of  a  moorland  ridge  looking  down 
upon  the  sea.  There  was  no  true  path  over  the 
height.  Whortleberries  were  not  ripe,  and  at  that 
season  of  the  year  none  but  the  idle  climbed  so  far. 
The  afterglow  that  heralds  the  dusk  still  lit  the  grey 
stones  of  an  ancient  cairn.  Close  by  leaned  the 
stump  of  a  broken  post,  which  may  once  have  held 
aloft  a  beacon  cradle.  It  served  the  lovers  for  a 
tethering-place.  Far  below,  beyond  a  wood  dense 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  31 

and  mysterious,  lay  the  sea,  purple-blue  where  it 
met  the  tree-tops,  but  fading  away  in  streaks  of  grey 
and  silver.  Across  the  channel,  a  dim  outline  of 
coast,  beautiful,  fairy-like,  romantic,  with  green 
hills  melting  in  a  veil  of  haze,  seemed  to  float  upon 
the  waters.  In  the  fleeting  light  it  changed  with  the 
minutes  and  was  inconstant  as  a  dream. 

They  sat  down  upon  a  square  boulder  with  their 
arms  around  each  other,  and  between  their  kisses 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 

His  was  a  frank  manly  face,  not  over  dark, 
though  his  cheeks  were  tanned  with  the  open  air. 
And  his  grey  eyes  were  bright  and  honest,  with  a 
suspicion  of  humour  lurking  somewhere  behind  them, 
even  when  they  looked  upon  Thomasine  most  ten- 
derly. His  hair  was  brown  and  wavy,  and  a  little 
peninsula  of  well-trimmed  whisker  jutted  down 
between  the  ear  and  the  cheek.  Otherwise  the  face 
of  Philip  was  shaven.  He  wore  a  white  neckcloth, 
a  blue  flop-tailed  coat  with  brass  buttons,  and  a 
linen  shirt  with  a  goffered  front. 

"  Oh,  Thomasine !  " 

"Philip!" 

In  such  few  words  can  the  tongue  of  love  manage 
to  say  so  much! 

They  had  been  lovers  for  years.  They  had  been 
secretly  engaged  for  months.  Nobody  was  told  of  it 
except  Isabel  Marshall,  daughter  of  the  old  lawyer 
Marshall  who  had  just  purchased  the  land  for  her 
father.  She  had  been  Thomasine's  bosom  friend  at 


32      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

the  boarding-school.  It  happened  when  Thomasine 
last  went  to  stay  with  Isabel — one  of  those  visits 
to  gentry  which  caused  comment  amongst  the 
neighbours — at  the  time  of  the  drizzling  rain  when 
the  last  sea-fog  hung  over  the  moor.  For  it  was  one 
of  the  doting  absurdities  of  John  and  Jane  Scutt 
that  their  Thomasine  was  weak  in  the  chest.  They 
were  so  anxious  about  this  only  girl.  "  Fine  clear 
weather,"  insisted  John  Scutt,  "  the  maid  is  sound 
as  a  bell — but— come  a  sea-fog — well —  Such 
foibles  caused  great  amusement  in  Eddyford.  So 
everybody  was  the  better  for  them  and  none  the 
worse.  Isabel  was  charmed  to  have  her  friend. 
Lawyer  Marshall  was  pleased  to*  be  able  to  show 
attention  to  a  growing  client.  As  to  Thomasine 
and  Philip — 

"  Oh,  Thomasine !  " 

"Philip!" 

It  happened  in  the  side  street  in  the  small  market- 
town  of  Netherton,  with  a  sprinkling  of  people  in 
sight  and  windows  in  all  directions.  Words  were 
few,  and  they  could  but  whisper  their  promises; 
but  they  promised  with  both  their  hearts.  Yet  there 
were  difficulties  in  the  way.  They  had  thought  it 
better  to  say  nothing  at  present,  since  they  could 
not  hope  to  marry  for  a  long  time.  For  Philip  was 
little  older  than  Thomasine.  He  had  been  articled 
to  the  lawyer  Marshall  and  was  with  him  still. 
He  was  not  well  off,  had  little  but  his  future  pro- 
fession to  look  to,  and  there  would  be  opposition  for 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  33 

certain  from  all  his  friends.  So  they  had  only  told 
their  love — a  love,  sweet,  pure,  beautiful  as  a  spring 
flower.  A  love  so  full  of  the  spirit  of  hope  that 
it  must  live  for  ever  and  ever.  And  that  was  what 
they  promised.  No  matter  how  long  they  must 
wait — no  matter  what  troubles  and  difficulties,  for 
ever  and  ever.  Since  then  they  had  only  seen  each 
other  for  a  few  minutes,  on  those  rare  occasions  when 
Thomasine,  of  a  market  day,  went  with  her  father 
into  Netherton  town. 

They  looked  across  the  sea. 

Far  away  against  the  soft,  scarcely  perceptible 
grey  outline  of  the  distant  coast  was  the  gleam  of  a 
white  sail. 

"  She  is  a  fine  ship,"  said  Philip,  "  outward 
bound,  with  who  knows  what  adventures  before 
her." 

At  the  words,  a  vague  but  tender  emotion  stirred 
in  the  heart  of  Thomasine,  as  when  one's  soul 
responds  to  the  human  in  some  commonplace 
incident  or  perceives  a  deeper  significance  in  the  line 
of  a  poem.  Their  hands  were  clasped.  Philip  felt 
her  fingers  close  more  warmly  upon  his. 

"  How  would  you  like,  Thomasine  dearest,  for 
you  and  me  to  be  sailing  away  together  over  the  sea, 
mile  after  mile,  day  after  day,  to  some  new  country, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world." 

And  Thomasine  took  up  the  parable. 

"  To  some  country  where  nobody  should  be  proud, 

where  nobody  should  be  mean " 

D 


34      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Where  nobody  should  interfere  with  any- 
body," laughed  Philip. 

"  Where  nobody  should  look  down  on  anybody, 
where  nobody  should  be  unkind — where- 
Finding  her  hesitate,  Philip  once  more  came  to 
her  help. 

"  Where  everybody  should  love  somebody,  and 
everybody  marry  the  one  they  love,  and  everybody 
live  happy  ever  afterwards." 

But  Thomasine  let  drop  the  fairy  tale  and  came 
back  to  themselves. 

"  It  will  not  matter  when  we  are  always  together," 
she  whispered,  and  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 
She  was  so  simple,  there  could  be  no  place  for  reti- 
cence in  a  love  so  pure.  And  yet  one  may  sometimes 
be  shy,  even  of  the  tenderness  of  one's  unspoken 
thoughts. 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Thomasine?  " 

Mean  it !  What  answer  could  she  return  to  such 
a  silly  question  ?  She  only  drew  the  closer. 

"  That  you  would  be  happy  to  go  to  a  new 
country?  Thomasine,  dear,  I  shall  never  like  the 
law.  I  don't  like  their  musty  old  parchments.  I 
don't  like  their  ways.  I  don't  like  the  office  and  the 
stiff-legged  table  and  the  chair.  If  a  thing  must  have 
legs  let  it  be  a  living  thing,  Thomasine.  I  ran  free 
too  long  on  these  moors  to  live  indoors.  There  is 
nothing  in  it  but  to  spend  your  days  in  a  hutch  like 
a  tame  rabbit.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  buy  a  Hatch- 
barrow,  Thomasine,  and  pay  for  it  out  of  the  law." 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  35 

"  Why  couldn't  you  take  a  farm?  "  said  Thom- 
asine  timidly. 

Philip  shook  his  head.  "  I  could  not  manage  it, 
Thomasine." 

"  Father  would  tell  you  what  to  do." 

But  Philip  looked  unconvinced. 

"  A  gentleman  can  be  a  farmer,  Philip.  Your 
own  father  farmed  his  glebe." 

"  Thomasine,  darling !  My  father  left  us  very  poor 
indeed.  But  all  my  uncles  who  went  to  America 
are  rich.  The  money  coming  to  me  is  enough  to 
make  a  start  there.  But  such  a  humble  start  here. 
sAnd  we  should  go  to  friends — friends  who  would 
welcome  us,  Thomasine." 

He  must  have  thought  much  of  the  scheme.  It 
was  complete  in  his  mind  and  he  spoke  with  the 
warmth  of  an  advocate.  Suddenly,  the  girl  raised 
her  head  and  looked  into  his  eyes,  with  an  intui- 
tion clear  and  certain. 

"  Philip  !    You  have  spoken  to  your  mother." 

Philip  was  found  out.  He  was  frankness  itself, 
but  he  had  not  intended  to  worry  Thomasine  with 
this  so  soon. 

"  Yes,  dear — I  told  her.  I  hate  carrying  about  a 
secret.  Better  have  it  out.  Otherwise  it  will  pop 
out  to  disconcert  you.  Yet  I  meant  to  keep  this 
one  from  you.  I  told  her  this  morning.  I — I  am 
glad  I  told  her,  after  all — and  glad  also  that  you 
know  it." 

So  the  inevitable  time,  that  she  had  thought  of  so 

D  2 


36      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

constantly  and  dreaded  so  much,  was  come. 
Thomasine  put  no  questions  to  Philip.  After  all, 
Philip's  mother  was  a  lady  of  such  marvellous 
strength  of  character  and  so  well  known  in  the 
neighbourhood,  that  nobody  in  Eddyford  would 
have  found  it  necessary  to  inquire  what  Philip's 
mother  might  have  said.  Thomasine  looked  very 
sad.  With  all  his  cheerfulness  of  disposition, 
Philip  made  but  a  poor  attempt  to  pass  the  matter 
lightly  by. 

"  I  must  admit,"  he  laughed,  "  at  the  first 
glance,  she  did  not  appear  to  regard  the  matter 
with  a  favourable  eye." 

Thomasine,  uncomforted,  looked  thoughtfully 
upon  the  distant  sea. 

"It  is  only  natural.  I  quite  see  that,"  she 
presently  began,  speaking  with  a  slow  despondency. 
"  I  am  not  a  lady  by  birth.  Father  and  mother  are 
but  plain  rough  folk.  She  could  never  be  happy  in 
their  company  nor  they  in  hers.  Sometimes  they 
say  and  do  things  that  make  even  me  ashamed. 
But  I  love  them  dearly,  and  ten  minutes  after- 
wards I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  They  love  me. 
They  worship  me  even  to  absurdity.  I  am  all  the 
world  to  both  father  and  mother.  Mother  will  not 
let  me  put  a  hand  to  anything  rough.  They  think 
a  lot  of  money.  They  toil  for  it — slave  for  it. 
Yet  they  spent  to  have  me  taught  above  their 
station.  Oh!  we  have  our  pride  as  well.  We  are 
upright  and  can  look  anybody  in  the  face.  And 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  37 

honest  to  the  last  farthing.  And  after  all,  the  Scutts 
have  held  Hatchbarrow  for  a  pretty  deal  more 
than  a  hundred  years,  and " 

"  Yes,  Thomasine  darling,  my  mother  knows  all 
that.  I  have  heard  her  praise  your  people  hundreds 
of  times.  She  knows  the  good  old  stock  from 
which  they  spring.  Everybody  on  the  whole 
countryside  both  knows  and  speaks  of  it." 

For  a  moment  he  silenced  her  with  kisses,  but 
Thomasine  had  more  to  say. 

"  If  we  should  ever  go  away — I  am  willing  to  do 
anything  for  your  happiness,  Philip,  but  if  we 
should — out  of  their  reach — for  they  would 
agree  to  it — oh!  what  would  happen  to  them? 
Across  the  seas,  to  their  minds,  I  should  be  as  far 
off  as  if  I  were  dead.  They  would  never  expect 
to  see  me  again.  Poor  father  and  mother !  I  am 
the  one  joy  of  their  lives.  Except  for  me,  it  is  all 
work,  and  get,  and  save." 

"  Think  no  more  of  it,  darling.  We  must  wait  a 
very  short  time  and  it  will  all  come  right." 

"  Your  mother  will  never  consent." 

"Give  her  a  chance,  Thomasine  dear.  It  was  as 
well  to  pay  her  the  compliment,"  laughed  he,  for  he 
had  already  thrown  aside  his  annoyance  with  the 
telling  of  it. 

"Oh,  Philip!" 

"  But  we'll  do  as  we  like  after  all." 

"  Oh,  Philip  !    You  could  never  change." 

"  Never." 


38      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Nothing  ever  can  come  between  us." 

"  Nothing  on  earth,  Thomasine." 

"  You  will  always  love  me — no  matter — whatever 
happens." 

"  Love  you,  Thomasine " 

Thus  they  came  back  to  the  old,  old  story. 
That  old  story  in  which  so  much  of  the  force  and 
the  beauty  is  to  be  found  in  the  punctuation.  It 
was  as  if  all  the  house-sparrows  of  Hatchbarrow 
were  mating  of  an  early  April  morning  after  rain. 
There  was  such  a  sound  of  chirruping  that  even  the 
lawyer  Marshall's  middle-aged  old  roadster,  taking 
it  for  encouragement  to  himself,  began  to  get 
restive  and  think  it  time  to  go.  Philip  was  driven 
to  get  up  and  quiet  him. 

Thomasine  rose  also. 

The  sun  had  sunk  out  of  sight.  The  light  had 
passed  away  from  her  sails  and  the  solitary  ship 
was  no  longer  to  be  seen. 

"  I  must  go." 

"  Just  a  little  longer,  Thomasine  dear." 

"  They  will  all  be  wondering.  Every  tongue  will 
be  wagging.  Somebody  might  even  come  to  look 
for  me,"  she  laughed. 

"  Just  one  minute." 

"  Truly  I  must  not.    I  must  go." 

Yet  they  sat  down  once  more. 

"  Thomasine !  Do  you  mind  if  we  keep  our  secret 
a  little  longer?  " 

"  Just  whatever  you  think  wise,"  she  whispered. 


THE  BEACON  HEAD  39 

"  But  perhaps  we  can  talk  again." 

"  You  will  stay  to  the  party  ?  " 

"  Yes.     For  some  time  at  any  rate." 

"  Come  soon.  Supper  is  ready.  Come  just  as  we 
are  settled.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  gate  when  you 
leave.  But  now — I  cannot  stay.  There  may  be 
someone  in  the  lane.  Ride  round  the  hillside  and 
come  by  the  true  road." 

So  they  parted.  Only  for  half  an  hour — it 
was  a  parting  nevertheless.  They  made  the  most 
of  it. 

"  Once   more,   dearest." 

"  Good-bye,"  sighed  Philip. 

"  Not  good-bye.    Say  au  revoir." 

Perhaps  after  all  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth  was 
right  in  the  matter  of  that  boarding-school. 

Pony  and  maid  were  moorland  bred.  They  went 
clattering  over  the  stones  without  fear  or  danger. 
Between  the  high  hedges  the  lane  was  almost 
dark.  The  barton  seemed  to  be  empty  as  she  passed 
through  the  gate,  and  the  barn's  doors  were  shut. 
But  before  she  could  reach  the  stable-door  young 
Isaac  Cledworth  stepped  out  from  the  gloom  of  the 
cow-stalls. 

"  Hullo,  Tamsin !  Why  you  be  slow  at  shepherd- 
ing to  my  mind,"  he  drawled  with  a  grin. 

"  I  galloped  round  the  Beacon  Head  for  the  sake 
of  a  ride,"  laughed  Tamsin. 

"  Tamsin,  look  here,  I  waited  about  to  have  a 
word  wi'  'ee,  Tamsin.  Look  here " 


40      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  There's  no  time,"  said  she. 

"  Only  a  minute.  Just  a  word  in  your  ear.  Look 
here " 

"  But  they're  all  waiting." 

"  Here  then — one  minute "  He  was  standing 

between  her  and  the  house,  but  he  stepped  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  on  the  rein.  "  You'll  be  all  so 
quick,  because  I'll  just  tie  up  the  pony  for  'ee." 

"  Thank  you  kindly.  If  you  will  be  so  good," 
replied  Tamsin  as  she  slid  from  the  saddle. 

"  Tamsin.  Listen  to  me  a  word.  I  can  never  so 
much  as  get  to  tell  'ee.  I  do  love  'ee " 

But  Tamsin  was  no  longer  there  to  hear. 

No  sooner  had  he  lifted  the  bridle  over  the  pony's 
head  than  she  ran  away  through  the  garden  hatch 
to  where  the  voices  of  the  shearers  were  to  be 
heard  in  front  of  the  porch. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  PARTY 

"  TAMSIN  !  " 

"Where's  Tamsin?  " 

"Where  is  Tamsin  then?" 

"  I  must  speak.   I  never  afore  witnessed  the  like." 

As  she  came  running  up  the  garden  path,  a  little 
flushed,  a  little  flurried,  a  little  out  of  breath,  Tamsin 
could  distinguish  that  the  voices,  from  the  impres- 
sive bass  of  Peter  Jay  the  parish  clerk  to  the  shrill 
treble  of  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth  the  tithing-man, 
were  all  clamouring  with  one  accord  of  the  un- 
accountable absence  of  Tamsin.  Tamsin  knew, 
without  any  telling,  what  the  excitement  was  all 
about.  But  what  did  she  care  ?  Philip  was  coming. 
Philip  was  near.  He  would  be  at  the  party.  He 
would  stay  for  a  dance.  She  should  see  him  and 
talk  to  him  again. 

The  shearers  had  not  gone  indoors.  They  could 
not  go  in  without  Tamsin.  They  stood  loitering 
around  the  porch,  just  as  if  it  had  been  Sunday  and 
they  waiting  to  troop  into  church  at  the  back  of  the 
parson's  cassock.  There  was  far  more  commotion 
than  if  parson  had  been  late.  Such  irregularity 
might  be  due  to  an  accident  or  pardonable  absence 


42      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

of  mind.  For  Tamsin  there  could  be  no  excuse. 
A  sense  of  grievance  found  expression  in  this 
universal  cry,  "  Where  is  Tamsin  ?  " 

"Hullo!    Here  is  Tamsin!" 

They  came  crowding  around  her  so  close  that  she 
could  not  go  forward.  Talking  all  at  once,  they  put 
questions  and  answered  them  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Where  have  'ee  been,  Tamsin?  " 

"  There's  no  excuse  'pon  earth  that'll  hold  good, 
unless  Tamsin  do  own  she  have  a-been  a-courting," 
squeaked  the  shy  little  voice  of  the  tithing- 
man. 

Then  all  the  rest  took  up  the  tale. 

"Have  'ee  been  a-courting?" 

"  By  the  face  o'  Tamsin,  I'll  swear  she  must 
ha'  been  a-courting,"  cried  Peter  Jay,  and  the  better 
to  support  his  assertion  put  his  finger  to  raise  her 
chin. 

"Who  is  it  then?" 

"  We  be  all  here." 

"  No.   No.   Stop  a  minute.   Not  so  fast." 

"  Count  up." 

"All  here  but  the  young  Isaac!  " 

"  Now  that  do  look  bad." 

"  Ay.   The  young  Isaac !  The  young  Isaac ! " 

"  Who  else  could  it  be  ?  " 

"  Ho !    ho !    You  be  sly,  Tamsin." 

"  You  be  a  double-faced  maid,  you  be " 

They  were  all  good-humoured,  in  part  from  the 
old  brew.  One  gave  her  a  push  and  another 


THE  PARTY  43 

pretended  to  save  her  from  falling.  But  Peter  Jay, 
the  parish  clerk  pulled  her  round  by  the  sleeve  of 
the  blue  pinny  and  spoke  close  to  her  ear  in  an 
earnest  whisper. 

"  If  you've  a-send  young  Isaac  in  haste  to  put  in 
the  banns,  'tis  very  short-sighted,  Tamsin.  For  he'll 
find  the  house  locked  up,  an'  by  the  same  token 
here's  the  key  in  my  pocket." 

"I  must  speak.  So  many  such  remarks  to  a 
young  maid  is  unseemly." 

And  before  the  roars  of  laughter  had  died  away, 
the  old  Isaac  Cledworth  stepped  forward,  and  putting 
on  the  manner  of  a  tithing-man  with  a  delinquent, 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  shall  speak  sharp  to  Isaac  on  the  matter," 
he  said.  "  But,  Tamsin,  where's  they  posies  ?  " 

"  Ay.  The  posies.  Our  posies.  We've  a-waited 
half  a  hour  a'ready,"  answered  the  full  chorus. 

Tamsin,  with  an  air  of  innocence,  childlike  enough 
to  deceive  the  wisest  there,  replied  with  a  question. 

"What  posies?  " 

To  be  behind-hand  with  a  duty  is  one  thing  and 
may  happen  to  the  best  of  mankind,  but  to  affect 
ignorance  of  a  well-known  established  attention 
to  one's  neighbours  clearly  indicates  the  presence 
of  that  objectionable  form  of  pride  usually 
described  by  the  term  "  stuck-up."  Resentment 
was  to  be  detected  in  the  murmur  of  that  little 
crowd. 

"  What !    No  posies  for  the  shearers !  " 


44   THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  A  maid  an'  a  flower  garden  an'  no  posies ! 
Tis  a  thing  unheard  of." 

"  Now  that's  Tamsin's  pride." 

"  That's  what  do  come  of  so  much  foolen  an' 
schoolen 

"  I  must  speak.  I  never  heard  o'  such  a  thing — 
so  woeful  proud  or  so  wilful  neglectful — not  in  the 
whole  course  o'  my  life." 

But  Tamsin  did  not  care.  In  secret  her  heart 
was  laughing  at  them  and  their  posies,  for  at  any 
moment  Philip  might  be  there.  With  a  toss  of  the 
head,  she  pushed  her  way  between  the  grumblers 
and  into  the  porch.  They  were  all  ready  for  the 
party  and  so  was  she.  She  took  off  her  blue  pinny 
and  laid  it  on  the  stone  seat.  Without  a  word  she 
pushed  to  the  great  oaken  door,  and  from  the  corner 
behind  it  drew  a  flat  earthenware  cream-pan  filled 
with  fresh  bunches  of  sweet  smelling  flowers — 
mignonette,  gilawfers,  pinks,  and  here  and  there 
a  wallflower.  She  had  hidden  them  there  in  readi- 
ness, out  of  the  light  on  the  cool  stones,  and  now 
the  evening  air  was  filled  with  fragrance.  All  in 
her  white  frock,  ready  for  the  party  and  the  dance, 
Tamsin  stepped  out  upon  the  path  and,  holding  the 
brown  vessel  pressed  against  her  left  side,  dealt  out 
a  posy  apiece  to  each  of  the  shearers. 

How  they  all  laughed  to  find  themselves  "  so 
proper  a-sucked  in."  Each  one  declared  that,  as  for 
himself,  so  soon  as  ever  Tamsin  asked  "  What 
posies  ?  "  he  knew  that  Tamsin  had  not  forgotten, 


THE  PARTY  45 

never  could  forget,  "  they  posies."  But  the  old 
Isaac  Cledworth,  sly  little  fox,  stepped  behind  her 
back  and  putting  his  hand  under  her  arm  managed, 
unseen,  to  finger  away  one  of  the  posies  and  to  hide 
it  in  his  hat. 

"  Why  Tamsin !  For  all  so  much  schooling,  you 
be  no  true  reckoner,  sure.  You  be  a  posy  short," 
he  cried  with  concern  as  she  came  to  the  end. 

"  Everybody  has  one,"  replied  she  glancing  from 
one  to  another. 

'  Young  Isaac  is  not  in  yet.  You  do  know,  sure. 
Who  should  if  you  don't  ?  Young  Isaac,"  they  all 
shouted  in  chorus. 

"  He'll  have  to  take  you  yourself,  Tamsin.  An' 
a  happy  man  he'll  be,"  whispered'  old  Isaac  with  a 
wink  nobody  saw  because  of  the  dusk. 

Tamsin  set  down  the  empty  pan,  ran  to  the  flower- 
knot,  picked  quickly  a  bunch  of  flowers  and  tied 
it  up  with  a  ribbon  of  the  long  striped  grass  that 
grew  in  the  middle  of  the  plot.  By  the  time  she 
returned  to  the  porch,  old  Isaac  Cledworth  had 
put  back  the  posy  into  the  pan  and  young  Isaac 
was  coming  up  the  path. 

"  Be  sprack,  young  Isaac.  Here's  a  posy  so  big 
as  a  picklin'  cabbage,  a-picked  a-purpose  for  your 
very  own  self,  an'  Tamsin  a-waitin'  to  pin  un  in 
your  buttonhole." 

Young  Isaac  quickened  his  pace  to  a  run.  He 
came  too  late. 

Tamsin  had  clapped  down  the  pan,  and  taken  wing 


46      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

like  a  bird.  Young  Isaac  might  choose  whichever 
posy  should  chance  to  take  his  fancy  and  fasten  it 
in  for  himself. 

"  Not  for  you.  Never  in  this  world.  Not  for  you, 
young  Isaac,"  laughed  the  shearers. 

"  Yet,  where  a  maid's  so  coy,  there  must  be  a 
thought.  Now  we  do  know  wi'  the  sexes  a  thought 
do  lead  to  a  look,  an'  a  look  is  the  best  half  of  a 
inkling,  an'  a  inkling  is  next  o'  kin  to  a  whisper  in 
the  ear,  an'  a  whisper  in  the  ear  is  the  first  step  to 
the  altar  rail.  So  there  you  be,"  argued  Peter  Jay 
optimistically. 

Others  also  took  a  hopeful  view  of  the  matter. 
For  let  an  idea  of  this  sort  once  take  root  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Eddyford,  it  never  ceased  to 
spread  and  grow.  Many  a  harmless  couple,  with  no 
such  intention  in  the  world,  had  been  driven  into 
very  successful  matrimony,  merely  to  escape  the 
fatigue  of  perpetual  reiteration,  and  from  the  desire 
to  hear  no  more  about  it.  However,  for  the  present 
discussion  was  cut  short. 

"  Come  along  then.    Come  on  to  once." 

It  was  the  hospitable  voice  of  John  Scutt  who 
had  come  out  to  the  door.  He  turned  and  led  the 
way.  The  shearers  with  their  posies  merrily  trooped 
after  him  to  join  the  other  guests  already  assembled 
in  the  great  kitchen. 

"  There,  shake  yourselves  down  together.  Friends 
and  sweethearts,  match  yourselves  up,  how  you  be 
a-minded." 


THE  PARTY  47 

Changed  from  head  to  foot,  shaven,  scrubbed, 
buttered,  brushed,  in  a  white  stock  and  a  black  coat, 
standing  at  the  head  of  his  table-board,  even  after 
the  guests  were  seated,  John  Scutt  was  scarcely  to 
be  recognized  as  the  man  with  the  pitch-kettle. 
His  clothes  displayed  a  fit  and  style  hitherto  un- 
known in  Eddyford.  The  fact  is,  Tamsin  had 
taken  the  matter  seriously  in  hand.  In  her  opinion, 
and  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  based  on  first-rate 
authority,  the  Netherton  tailor  was  no  good.  She 
had  insisted  on  accompanying  her  father  to  Exeter, 
and  there  she  chose  the  cloth  and  the  neckcloth,  and 
all  the  lot  of  it,  watched  him  measured  and  gave 
admonitions  as  to  the  cut.  He  might  do  as  he  liked 
upon  the  farm,  but  in  town  or  in  company  hence- 
forth he  should  be  fit  to  be  seen.  Tamsin  had  her 
reasons  as  we  know.  And  now  she  glanced  at  him 
with  secret  pleasure.  Philip  was  coming  and  her 
father  looked  really  nice.  TJbie  clothes  were  perfect, 
and  he  already  unconscious  of  them.  Shearing  done, 
company  present  and  everything  going  well,  his 
roughness  changed  to  a  hearty  joviality.  In  Tamsin's 
eyes  he  looked  the  plain,. substantial  yeoman,  worthy 
to  be  the  owner  of  Hatchbarrow,  as  carving  knife 
and  fork  already  in  hand,  loudly  in  haste  to  be 
hospitable,  he  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice: 

"  Who  says  beef  ?  Isaac,  sit  down  an'  carve  the 
ham.  Peter  Jay,  there's  a  spare-rib  right  under 
your  nose — that  is,  if  you've  a-got  eyes  to  see. 
Now  then,  Jane.  What  have  'ee  got  your  end  ?  " 


48      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

The  table  was  a  long  oaken  board  set  on  trestles. 
Erect  and  silent,  in  cap  and  company-gown  of  stiff 
watered  silk,  with  an  anxious  expression  on  her 
weather-beaten  face,  Jane  had  watched  the  guests 
shuffle  into  their  places.  Prosperity  had  not  con- 
ferred on  Jane  Scutt  a  freedom  from  care.  Rather 
it  seemed  to  have  cast  a  burden  of  anxiety  upon  her. 
She  sighed  under  the  responsibility  of  these  two 
rows  of  visitors. 

When  Peter  Jay  declined  to  express  an  opinion  on 
Jane's  beauty  he  exercised  a  prudent  reserve.  The 
mother  of  Tamsin  was  tall  and  broad,  yet  she  was 
uncommonly  bony.  There  was  no  mock  modesty  in 
that  matter.  Wherever  there  was  a  bone  you  could 
see  it.  Her  cheek-bones  were  high  and  prominent, 
and  her  chin  sharply  denned.  Her  shoulders  showed 
like  mountain  ridges  under  the  silk  and  her  elbows 
looked  as  if  they  would  pierce  the  tight  sleeves. 
Jane  was  strong  and  gaunt.  Yet  her  features  were 
even  and  well  formed.  One  might  imagine  her  a 
beauty  in  her  girlhood.  But  that  was  past  and 
gone.  Her  hair  was  still  black  as  a  gipsy's,  but  her 
cheeks  were  sallow  and  thin,  and  the  lines  in  her 
forehead  were  deep-marked  as  furrows  on  a  soil  of 
clay.  But  Jane  had  done  much  work.  Her  hands, 
large  and  muscular  as  a  man's,  for  the  moment 
resting  on  her  breast  with  fingers  interlocked,  were 
veined  and  ridged,  and  almost  as  brown  as  the 
buck-horn  handle  of  the  carver  in  front  of  her. 
Jane's  eyes  wandered  slowly  up  and  down  the  table, 


THE  PARTY  49 

closely  observant,  but  always  full  of  anxiety.  They 
were  always  so.  It  was  a  common  talk  amongst  the 
neighbours  that  Jane  Scutt,  with  everything  that 
heart  could  wish  for,  must  needs  carry  the  woes  of 
the  world  on  her  countenance. 

The  sumptuous  appearance  of  the  feast  begot  an 
immediate  merriment  in  the  hearts  of  the  guests, 
but  Jane  found  never  a  smile  for  their  sallies.  Yet 
deep  in  her  heart  lay  concealed  a  silent  pride.  The 
spirit  of  her  Tamsin  was  present  everywhere.  It 
rested  upon  a  table  more  daintily  spread  than  was 
usual  in  a  moorland  farm  at  that  period.  The  snow- 
white  cloth  was  laid  with  an  accurate  precision. 
The  trellis  of  pastry  on  the  surface  of  the  cheese- 
cake was  of  a  lighter,  more  elegant  structure 
than  usual.  The  white  paper  frill  concealed  the 
knuckle  of  the  ham  with  a  sweeter,  more  uncon- 
scious chastity.  Even  the  obese  bowl  of  furmety  in 
the  centre  held  itself  with  a  kind  of  stately  grace. 
Jane  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  distinction  that  fol- 
lowed the  touch  of  Tamsin. 

The  guests  also  suspected  her  handiwork. 

"  Ah !  "  cried  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth  as  he  took 
his  seat,  "  I  shall  taste  the  little  vinger  o'  Tamsin 
in  thik  cheese-cake.  I  do  know  I  shall." 

The  face  of  cousin  Jane  Peters  beamed.  "Now, 
Tamsin,  really  do  set  out  a  table  tastey,  to  my 
mind." 

"  I  must  speak.  Work  lavished  on  vain  show  is 
little  better  'an  waste  o'  time." 

E 


50     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

And  Tamsin  tripped  to  and  fro  happy  and  smiling, 
giving  here  and  there  a  last  touch,  handing  to  one 
and  passing  to  another.  Yet,  although  she  seemed  to 
be  so  attentive  all  the  time,  her  ear  was  listening 
for  the  sound  of  hoofs  in  the  barton  or  a  step  on  the 
flagstones  that  paved  the  way  from  the  garden- 
hatch  to  the  porch.  Before  the  first  carving  was  half 
completed,  and  she  free  to  sit  down,  there  came  a 
sharp  rat-tat  of  the  iron  ring  that  lifted  the  front 
door  latch. 

John  Scutt  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice: 
"  Hullo !  Here's  a  late  bird.  Better  late  than  never. 
Ope'  the  door  an'  walk  in,  you  slack-twisted  lag- 
about — whoever  you  be." 

To  this  welcome  came  no  response.  It  may  be 
that  the  heartiness  of  the  invitation  was  drowned 
in  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  and  the  hubbub 
of  talk  and  laughter. 

"  Just  run,  Tamsin,  and  see  who  'tis." 

"  What,  Master  Philip ?  Never!  Ho!  ho!  Lord 
A'mighty !  Master  Philip !  " 

The  entrance  of  Philip  was  greeted  with  surprise, 
then  with  laughter  and  finally  with  something  like 
cheers. 

Philip  shook  hands  with  the  Scutts,  and  nodded 
around  the  taljle  to  one  after  another. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Cledworth  ?  Don't  get  up, 
Peter  Jay.  How  are  you,  Miss  Peters?  How  do 
you  do,  Isaac?  " 

Although  he  had  not  seen  much  of  the  good  folk 


THE  PARTY  51 

of  Eddyford  for  some  years  he  knew  them  all,  and 
after  a  manner  was  one  of  themselves.  His  father, 
a  former  rector  of  Eddyford,  a  mighty  sportsman 
in  his  day,  and  one  who  farmed  his  glebe,  died  when 
Philip  was  a  youth,  leaving  his  widow  and  only 
son  but  poorly  provided  for.  With  difficulty  Philip 
had  been  articled  to  the  profession  he  detested. 
In  his  mother's  opinion  it  was  a  necessity  of  his 
gentility.  She  had  her  way,  but  a  boyhood  in 
the  woods  and  on  the  moors  had  been  like 
to  prove  too  strong  for  her.  That  Master 
Philip  was  a  favourite,  the  chorus  of  greetings 
bore  evidence. 

"  Sit  down,   Master  Philip,"   cried  John  Scutt. 

"  Here ,  here's  room  for  another  place.     Next 

to  our  Tamsin's  empty  chair." 

"  I  am  in  luck,"  laughed  Philip.  "  I  came  on 
business,  Mr.  Scutt,  and  find  a  feast." 

"  Victuals  an'  drink  first.  Another  knife  an'  fork 
Tamsin.  That's  my  religion.  A  plate  and  a  glass. 
Tamsin.  Then  work.  Sit  down,  Master  Philip,  and 
make  yourself  at  home." 

"  An'  sure !  Tamsin's  extra  posy'll  come  in  after 
all,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  Peter  Jay. 

"  Posies  be  for  shearers,"  objected  young  Isaac 
in  his  slow  drawl  from  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"  Why,  you  young  fool,  Master  Philip's  a  lawyer," 
shouted  his  father.  "  All  lawyers  be  shearers. 
An'  in  that  you'll  bear  me  out.  Won't  'ee,  Master 
Philip  ? " 

E  2 


52      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

This  stroke  of  wit  was  so  well  received  that  Peter 
Jay  ran  and  brought  the  posy. 

Then  they  called  aloud  for  a  pin. 

Nobody  had  a  pin. 

"Come,  cousin  Jane  Peters,"  coaxed  John  Scutt. 

Thereat  everybody  took  up  the  joke  and  insisted 
that,  somewhere  concealed  upon  her  person,  cousin 
Jane  Peters  of  Eddy  ford  must  and  for  certain  did 
possess  a  pin.  This  accusation  cousin  Jane  Peters 
most  unblushingly  denied,  but  with  such  warmth 
that  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth,  speaking  as  tithing- 
man,  declared  that,  only  give  him  time  to  procure 
a  search-warrant,  he  would  be  bound  to  pretty 
quick  find  that  pin. 

"I  must  speak.  To  mention  the  word  search- 
warrant  to  a  lady  in  the  presence  of  company  does 
and  must  savour  of  indelicacy." 

Cousin  Jane  Peters,  in  the  greatest  haste  produced 
a  pin  of  the  largest  and  strongest  variety,  but  only, 
as  she  explained,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  the  rising 
of  her  stomacher. 

"I  must  speak;"  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook  frowned 
upon  cousin  Jane  Peters  severely,  "I  do  like 
truth." 

Finally  they  insisted  that  Tamsin  must  fasten  the 
posy  in.  Tamsin's  ringers  quickly  made  it  fast  to 
the  broad  lapelle  on  one  side  of  the  goffered  front. 

So  Philip  decorated  like  the  rest  became  one  of 
the  party,  and  with  the  good  cheer  the  mirth 
increased.  The  hum  of  conversation  which  began  like 


THE  PARTY  53 

a  swarm  of  bees  grew  into  a  charm  of  voices  as 
noisy  as  Netherton  pleasure  fair.  But  the  ear  of 
old  Isaac  Cledworth  had  been  quick  to  note  that 
Master  Philip  was  come  on  business.  All  the  while 
his  cunning  little  inquisitive  slit  of  an  eye  flitted 
from  the  face  of  John  Scutt  to  the  young  lawyer 
and  back  again.  Every  time  there  came  a  lull  in 
the  clatter  his  sharp  little  tongue  popped  in  a  sly 
word  or  two. 

"  Have  another  piece  o'  cheese-cake,  Master 
Philip." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Ah !  He  spoke  truth.  Master  Philip  did  come 
'pon  business.  I  do  see  that." 

And  as  soon  as  the  laughter  died  away,  he  was 
at  it  again  harping  on  the  same  string. 

"  Talking  o'  business  now  did  I  hear  right,  Master 
Philip,  that  Hatchbarrow  is  for  sale?  " 

Innocence  itself  could  not  look  more  transparent 
than  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth's  guile.  It  deceived 
even  his  intimate  friends  and  all  the  company  began 
to  shout  at  once: 

"  Why,  'tis  common  talk." 

"  To  be  sure  'tes." 

"  Hatchbarrow  ?  For  sale  for  six  months  and 
more." 

A  frown  slowly  settled  on  John  Scutt's  square 
face. 

"  Ay.  So  I've  a-heard  tell,"  persisted  the  old 
Isaac  speaking  more  clearly  and  deliberately  as  he 


54    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

took  note  of  his  host's  annoyance.  "  An'  I  had  a 
funny  dream — a  rummy  dream  I  do  call  it — o' 
Hatchbarrow  a-sold  to  one  that  wouldn'  turn  out 
neighbour  Scutt." 

"  Pack  o'  nonsense,"  cried  John  Scutt. 

"  An'  I  thought  to  myself  like — who  then  ?  If 
not  neighbour  Scutt  his  own  self " 

"  Tomfoolery !  " 

"  An'  he've  a-raked  together  the  ha'pence,  we  do 
know an ' ' 

John  Scutt  shook  his  head  and  snorted  more 
loudly  than  in  the  barton.  Many  people  take  a 
pride  in  becoming  rich.  He  certainly  showed  a 
most  incomprehensible  hatred  of  hearing  his  money 
talked  about. 

"  An'  what  more  likely — an'  what  more  pleasant 
to  folk  around — or  a  wiser  thing — or  more  natural 
like — or  more  to  be  commended?  An'  folk  do 
say " 

"  Fools'll  say  anything." 

"  An'  yet,  neighours "  The  constable  was 

speaking  with  a  most  irritating  deliberation.  "  Mr. 
John  Scutt  don't  say  'No'." 

With  an  air  of  plain  dealing  and  closing  the  matter 
at  once,  John  Scutt  turned  abruptly  to  Philip. 

"  They'll  believe  you,  Master  Philip,  I  dare  say," 
cried  he.  "  Have  I  bought  Hatchbarrow  ?  " 

Philip  hesitated. 

"  Speak  out." 

"  No  doubt  you  have,  Mr.  Scutt.     With  a  quite 


THE  PARTY  55 

unimportant  stipulation,  they  have  taken  your 
offer,"  was  the  unexpected  reply. 

The  cloud  departed  from  John  Scutt's  coun- 
tenance. The  transaction  had  been  arranged  advan- 
tageously beyond  his  hopes,  for  he  had  quite  ex- 
pected to  give  more.  Yet  his  dislike  of  the  mention 
of  his  riches  might  have  been  detected  behind  the 
outward  carelessness  with  which  he  tried  to  set 
aside  and  account  for  the  purchase. 

"Oh,  well!  Maybe  the  more  fool  I.  I  shall  have 
to  find  the  money  to  pay  for  it." 

"Now,  as  to  that,  I  really  must  speak.  Interest 
is  so  bad  to  pay  as  rent  to  my  thinking." 

Nobody  called  in  question  so  sound  an  economic 
consideration.  Nobody  noticed  it.  Here  was  news 
upon  which  every  one  present  would  be  able  to 
speak  with  authority  at  many  a  coming  market  or 
fair.  If  any  of  the  neighbours  cherished  envy  in  their 
hearts  of  John  Scutt's  remarkable  ability  as  a 
money-maker  this  was  not  the  occasion  to  express 
it.  They  were  still  assisting  the  mastication  of  his 
victuals  by  frequent  draughts  of  Jane's  strongest 
brew.  They  raised  their  glasses.  They  stood  up. 
A  chorus  of  congratulations  arose  from  both  sides 
of  the  table. 

"  Well,  I  do  wish  you  an'  Jane  uck." 

"  An'  so  do  I,  too." 

"  An'  many  years  to  enjoy  your  property." 

"  An'  increase  it,  Mr.  Scutt." 

Carried  away  by  the  excitement,  the  old  Isaac 


56      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Cledworth  at  last  leapt  upon  his  chair  in  order  to 
do  the  thing  properly  and  make  a  speech.  For 
once  he  cast  aside  his  banter  and  spoke  in  plain 
terms  his  praise  of  neighbour  Scutt.  Where  could 
one  be  found  more  worthy  to  own  land?  All  the 
company  shouted  that  it  was  true.  Where  a  heal- 
thier flock  or  cleaner  grounds  than  at  Hatchbarrow  ? 
Where  a  neighbour  less  prone  to  borrow  and  more 
willing  to  lend?  Nowhere  upon  this  earth.  En- 
couraged by  the  universal  acclamations,  he  finished 
with  the  proposal:  "  Three  cheers  for  Squire  Scutt, 
the  founder  of  the  feast — coupled  wi'  the  name  o' 
missus,  to  be  sure,  all  so  well  Hip-hip-hip- 
Hoorah!" 

The  old  oak  beams  rang  as  they  cheered  him  three 
times  three.  Even  Tamsin,  who  distrusted  every- 
thing that  came  from  the  lips  of  a  Cledworth,  was 
pleased.  And  her  father  replied,  in  his  rough,  abrupt 
manner,  that  he  thanked  them  all.  He  was  a  man 
of  few  words.  The  best  he  could  say,  at  the  present 
moment,  was  that,  since  they  could  find  no  better 
use  for  their  throats  than  to  hollow,  the  quicker  the 
place  was  cleared  the  better  the  maidens  would  be 
pleased.  This  was  the  vein  in  which  she  liked  her 
father  best.  Then  she  realized  and  appreciated  his 
downright  honest  mind  and  the  absence  of  all 
silliness  and  affectation. 

They  had  finished  supper,  and  at  the  hint  every- 
body sprang  up  at  once.  Men  and  maids  turned 
to  with  a  will.  They  shuffled  the  plates  and  dishes 


THE  PARTY  57 

into  the  larder  and  backhouse,  romped  the  table  and 
trestles  into  the  milkhouse  out  of  the  way  and 
arranged  forms  and  chairs  wherever  there  was  space 
to  place  them  along  the  kitchen  wall. 

John  Scutt  took  a  candle  from  the  table.  "  Come 
into  the  parlour,  Master  Philip,"  he  whispered,  and 
led  the  way  to  that  little  room,  rarely  entered,  where 
everything  spoken  was  a  secret. 

By  the  time  Philip  returned  the  dancing  was  in 
full  swing.  The  old  folk  had  tucked  themselves 
away  into  nooks  between  the  furniture,  or  were 
sitting  around  and  within  the  great  open  hearth, 
upon  which  only  a  few  sticks  were  left  burning  for 
the  sake  of  the  kettle.  The  fiddler  was  perched  on 
a  three-legged  milking-stool  out  of  the  way  in  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  window-seat.  Regardless  of 
a  sadly  disordered  stomacher,  cousin  Jane  Peters 
was  hopping  lightly  on  the  centre  of  the  floor,  with 
that  grim  determination  not  to  let  her  mind  wander 
which  she  brought  to  all  her  religious  obser- 
vances. Shearers  and  maidens  were  jigging  reels, 
shuffling  and  stamping,  turning  and  winding — 
all  but  Tamsin,  who  had  been  busy  about  the 
glasses,  and  the  kettle,  and  the  sugar,  and  the 
spoons. 

"  Come  along,  Tamsin,  before  the  music  stops." 

They  had  but  time  to  shake  a  toe  and  turn,  but 
the  weather  was  warm  and  the  evening  young,  and 
the  fiddler  closed  it  all  too  soon. 

The  dancers  sat  round  with  their  backs  to  the 


58    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

wall  and  fanned  themselves  or  mopped  their  brows 
with  handkerchiefs. 

A  voice  shouted,  "  Young  Isaac!  " 

At  once  the  cry  was  repeated  from  all  parts  of 
the  room. 

"  Young  Isaac!  " 

"  Come  on,  young  Isaac." 

"  Sweet  moonlight !  " 

Very  willingly  young  Isaac  obliged  the  company. 
He  threw  back  his  head,  a  little  on  one  side,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  brown  oak  beam  that  inter- 
sected the  whitewashed  ceiling.  In  rigid  earnest,  he 
warbled,  literally  warbled,  in  a  light  tenor  voice, 
a  melody  of  infinite  beauty,  a  sentimental  love  ballad, 
chaste  and  true,  beginning  with  the  singing  of  the 
nightingales  and  ending  with  the  ringing  of  the 
church  bells. 

SWEET  MOONLIGHT 

In  the  moonlight  so  sweet 
Two  young  lovers  did  meet, 
Adonijah  was  the  name 
And  Selina  of  the  same. 
Oh!     The  merry  month  of  June! 
Oh!    The  nightingale's  fond  tune ! 
As  so  early  and  so  late 
He  discourseth  to  his  mate. 

Oh!    I  love  you. 

Oh!    I  love  you. 
I  do — do — do — do. 


THE  PARTY  59 

And  all 
Until  fall 

I'll  be  true — true — true — true. 
Hidden  in  the  bushes 
Where  the  woodbine  pushes, 
I  will  nest  with  you. 

In  the  moonlight  so  clear 
These  young  lovers  so  dear, 
Oh!   Their  eyes  shone  as  bright 
As  the  stars  of  the  night, 
And  like  haws  and  like  hips 
Blushed  their  cheeks  and  their  lips. 
Oh !    The  gay  days  of  youth ! 
'Tis  no  more  than  the  truth, 
Oh!    I  love  you. 
Oh!    I  love  you. 
I  do — do — do — do. 
Every  breath 
Until  death 

Shall  be  true — true — true — true. 
There's  no  time  to  tarry, 
Come  then,  let  us  marry. 
I  will  wed  with  you. 

In  the  church  porch  so  gay, 
Of  a  midsummer  day, 
Full  an  hour  afore  noon 
In  that  same  month  of  June, 
Adonijah  came  there, 


60      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

And  Selina  so  fair; 
And  Sir  Parson  did  stand 
With  the  book  in  his  hand. 
Adonij  ah ! 
Adonij  ah, 

Where's  the  ring — ring — ring — ring  ? 
From  the  page 
One  short  stage 

To  the  fing — fing — fing — ftng — 
Finger  of  the  bride 
Standing  by  his  side, 
At  their  wedding. 

Then  came  more  dancing,  followed  by  another 
song,  a  ballad  of  the  fair  shepherdess  who  married 
the  lawyer  from  the  town.  At  which  the  lovers, 
smiling  at  heart,  scarcely  dared  to  look  at  one 
another.  Then  they  all  asked  riddles  and  told  tales. 
W7ith  a  succession  of  such  simple  pleasures  the 
hours  passed  more  quickly  than  the  guests  knew. 
Surely  Thomasine  was  a  little  too  fastidious  when 
she  suffered  misgivings  as  to  the  party. 

"  One  more  turn,  Thomasine,  and  I  must  go." 

Whilst  they  danced  Thomasine  whispered: 

"Father  will  be  certain  to  see  you  to  your  horse." 

"Where  shall  I  find  you,  dearest?  " 

"I  will  slip  out  and  be  waiting  for  you  at  the 
gate." 

"When  this  dance  is  over." 

"So  soon?" 


THE  PARTY  61 

"  The  earlier  I  start  the  longer  we  shall  have,"  he 
argued. 

Both  surprise  and  opposition  greeted  the  announce- 
ment that  Master  Philip  must  go.  But  Master 
Philip  was  very  popular  around  Eddyford.  People 
said  he  was  always  the  same — always  merry  and 
lighthearted. 

"What?" 

"So  soon?  " 

"  Not  for  hours." 

Yet,  after  all,  reasonable  folk  must  listen  to 
reason.  Master  Philip  came  on  a  borrowed  horse, 
the  lawyer  Marshall's  horse,  and  the  lawyer  Mar- 
shall was  known  to  be  a  very  touchy  and  particular 
old  widow  gentleman.  A  man  must  act  with  reason, 
and  more  than  ever  with  so  sacred  a  thing  as  another 
man's  horse.  Yes,  he  must.  He  must  so — 

"  If  stay  you  can — stay.  If  go  you  must — so. 
Just  light  up  the  lantern,  Jane,"  shouted  John 
Scutt,  full  of  bustle  to  speed  the  parting  guest,  but 
at  the  same  time  secretly  eager  for  one  word  more 
about  Hatchbarrow. 

So  Philip  said  "  Good-bye  "  all  round,  shook  hands 
cordially  with  Jane  and  Tamsin,  and  took  his  de- 
parture. 

Out  of  the  kitchen  was  a  way  into  the  dairy- 
house,  and  Tamsin  already  had  her  hand  on  the 
latch  of  the  door. 

"  Now  gentry  is  gone,  I  should  really  suppose 
there  ought  to  be  a  chance  for  a  neighbour." 


62      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

It  was  the  voice  of  young  Isaac  Cledworth  by  her 
shoulder,  muttering  his  discontent  in  her  ear. 

"  The  very  next  dance,  Isaac,"  replied  Tamsin, 
and  turned  round  to  him,  all  smiles. 

"Come  on  then,"  said  he,  and  offered  his  arm. 

"Tell  the  fiddler  Solinger's  Round.  I  shall  be  back 
in  a  minute." 

She  waited  until  he  was  in  conference  with  the 
fiddler,  then  went  out,  closed  the  door  behind  her 
and  escaped  through  the  dairy-house.  She  ran 
across  the  paved  yard  and  under  the  few  moss- 
covered  old  apple  trees  that  the  Scutts  sometimes 
proudly  called  the  orchard.  The  moorland  country 
is  later  than  the  vale,  *&Rd  the  half  moon,  which 
had  just  risen  clear  of  the  hill,  lighted  up  a  paradise 
of  snowy  blossoms.  One  of  the  trees,  blown  down 
in  a  spring  gale,  had,  nevertheless,  covered  its  head 
with  a  white  veil  which  reached  to  the  ground. 
Tamsin  heard  a  noise  in  the  dairy-house.  Some  one 
was  there  to  whom  the  place  was  not  familiar. 
She  heard  his  ejaculation  as  he  stumbled  against 
the  leg  of  a  trestle.  Tamsin  quickly  hid  amongst 
the  branches  that  formed  a  sort  of  bower  around 
her. 

The  young  Isaac  groped  his  way  out  into  the 
moonlight — stopped,  then  followed  into  the  orchard 
and  stood  under  the  trees  almost  within  touch  of 
her.  Her  white  frock  was  nothing  visible  amongst 
the  apple  blossoms.  The  young  Isaac  stood  per- 
plexed. He  was  suspicious  and,  like  all  his  class, 


THE  PARTY  63 

inquisitive  and  prying.  Moreover,  he  was  in  love 
and  slighted.  He  strode  out  of  the  orchard  and 
into  the  field  beyond. 

Then  Tamsin  lightly  tripped  back  into  the  house 
and,  with  a  laugh,  shut  the  door  and  turned  the  key 
behind  her. 

She  returned  into  the  kitchen.  The  dancers  had 
taken  partners  and  the  fiddler  was  tuning  up  to 
begin.  She  pretended  to  search  around  in  vain, 
and  asked  aloud  of  one  and  another: 

"Where  is  Isaac  then  ?  " 

"He  was  here  but  a  minute  agone,"  they  all 
agreed. 

"He  promised  to  dance  with  me." 

Tamsin  spoke  in  such  an  injured  tone  that  cousin 
Jane  Peters  became  quite  sympathetic. 

"Poor  maid,  then.  Where  can  young  Isaac  be 
gone?" 

"I  must  speak,"  said  Uncle  Jeremiah  Brook. 
"To  ask  a  maid  to  dance  and  go  is  not  manners." 

She  begged  them  all  to  be  certain  to  tell  Isaac 
that  she  should  be  back  in  a  moment.  And  so  she 
slipped  out  by  the  porch  and  was  free. 


CHAPTER  V 
SWEET  MOONLIGHT 

THOMASINE  stopped  by  the  garden  wall  and  listened. 
They  were  talking  close  by  the  stable  door. 

"Then,  good  night,  Master  Philip." 

"Goodnight,  Mr.  Scutt." 

She  hurried  to  the  shadow  by  the  lilac  bushes, 
lest  ,she  might  meet  her  father  on  his  way  back  to 
the  house. 

"Oh!  By-the-by!  Just  one  word.  One  moment, 
Master  Philip." 

Her  father  ran  a  few  steps. 

Then  again  a  murmur  of  confidential  discussion 
in  the  corner  by  the  entrance  to  the  barton. 

To  this  child  of  Hatchbarrow  every  stone  and 
every  bush  were  familiar.  She  climbed  over  where 
the  coping  had  fallen  from  the  old  wall,  passed 
behind  the  gloomy  faggot-pile  and  clambered 
through  a  gap  in  the  beech  hedge.  No  one  saw  her. 
Everything  was  still. 

After  all,  she  had  to  wait  for  Philip  at  the  gate. 
Her  father  had  so  much  to  say  to  him  about  the 
purchase  of  the  farm. 

The  open  moor  lay  around  them,  lonely,  dark 


SWEET  MOONLIGHT  65 

and  mysterious  even  on  the  side  of  the  slope  that 
lay  towards  the  moonlight,  which  cast  shadows  from 
the  gorse  across  the  track.  Sprinkled  on  the  hillside 
were  misshapen  blackthorn  bushes.  Not  even  a  wild 
pony  moved.  The  unceasing  churning  of  a  night j  ar 
in  the  heather  scarcely  seemed  to  break  the  silence, 
but  now  and  then  might  be  heard  the  melancholy 
bleating  of  a  distant  sheep. 

Their  time  was  very  short.  This  thorny  life  is 
beset  with  painful,  importunate  facts  which  cry 
aloud  for  recognition.  It  was  lawyer  Marshall's 
horse. 

"  Oh !     When  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

The  words  were  more  of  a  sigh  than  a  question. 

"The  distance  is  too  far  for  me  to  get  here  in 
time  on  foot." 

"  Oh !     If  you  could,  Philip ! " 

"The  house  would  be  locked  up." 

"  But  if  I  knew  when " 

"I  will,  Thomasine  dearest.     I  will " 

"  But  no.  I  could  not  let  you.  It  would  be  six- 
teen miles  here  and  back.  And  you  would  be  out 
all  night." 

"That  is  nothing." 

"You  would  lose  your  rest." 

"  What  would  that  matter,  love  ?  If  only  we  had 
seen  each  other." 

"No.  It  is  not  possible,  Philip  dear.  Think  of 
some  other  way.  Some  better  way,  but  soon — very 

soon " 

F 


66      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Very  soon,  Thomasine,  dear.  I  shall  make 
errands  out  of  this  business,  you  may  be  sure.  We 
shall  see  each  other  almost  at  once." 

"  Do,  Philip.     Do,  if  you  can." 

"  Then,  we  must  not  forget,  darling,  the  glorious 
seafog  season  will  come,  too." 

"  Not  till  after  the  haymaking,  Philip." 

"  But  that  is  now,  dear." 

"  And  haymaking  may  be  wet  and  long  " 

"  Sweetheart,  it  shall  not  be  long." 

"  But  the  almanac  this  year  says  it  will." 

"  Take  courage,  Thomasine,  dearest.  I  will  very 
soon  claim  you.  Believe  me,  it  is  better  to  wait 
just  a  little.  I  know  my  mother.  She  will  say 
something  in  excitement  and  stick  to  it  in  cold  blood. 
But  if  we  wait — it  will  soon  be  right." 

"  I  am  willing  to  wait,  Philip." 

"  But  I  am  not,  Thomasine." 

"  If  only  we  could  see  each  other,  then  I  should 
be — oh!  so  happy." 

"  But  we  can  trust  each  other,  dear." 

"  For  ever." 

"  Yes.    For  ever." 

"  Oh,  Philip !  If  ever  anything  should  make  you 
change,  I  should — I  should " 

The  sentence  was  never  completed,  for  he  smoth- 
ered the  word  in  kisses  and  assurances  that  every- 
thing must  come  right — was  right,  indeed,  since 
they  loved  so  well.  Still  they  lingered  a  minute. 
Yet  part  they  must. 


SWEET  MOONLIGHT  67 

They  heard  voices  in  the  barton.  In  the  month  of 
June  the  morning  begins  early  and  work  begins  with 
the  morning.  The  early  birds  amongst  the  revellers 
were  beginning  to  depart. 

"  Let  it  be  next  week,"  pleaded  Thomasine. 

"  Yes.     Next  week." 

"  Good-bye,  dearest." 

"  Good-bye." 

She  stood  watching  as  he  rode  away.  She  could 
hear  the  thud  of  the  horse  long  after  he  was  lost 
in  the  gloom  of  the  hillside.  But  she  also  must 
hasten. 

She  turned  and  walked  quickly  towards  the  house. 

The  departing  guests  drew  near,  youth  which 
wished  for  time  to  loiter,  and  elderly  folk  who  had 
already  had  enough.  Some  of  those  who  came  on 
foot,  now  returning  to  the  village  in  a  party,  were 
already  halfway  down  the  lane.  They  were  talking 
about  her. 

"An'  Tamsin  was  pinched  in  her  pride.  I  do 
know  she  was.  That  was  why  she  never  came  back." 

"  I  must  speak.  Tamsin's  pride  is  but  the  out- 
come o*  John  and  Jane's  folly." 

Behind  came  the  parcel  of  maidens,  now  with  a 
sprinkling  of  men.  They  were  singing  a  catch  to 
shorten  the  road. 

If  Tom  kissed  Tilly  and  Abe  loved  Ann, 
If  Little  Billy  Bragg  was  Dorothy's  man, 
Then  who  was  there  left  to  walk  out  Fan? 

F  2 


68      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Though  Tom  kissed  Tilly  and  Abe  loved  Ann, 
And  little  Billy  Bragg  was  Dorothy's  man, 
There  were  three  merry  men  to  walk  out  Fan. 

Tamsin  clambered  over  a  gate,  and,  having 
crossed  a  field,  entered  the  garden  on  one  side  of 
the  house.  Nobody  saw  her,  so  far  as  she  knew. 
When  she  got  indoors  young  Isaac  Cledworth  was 
not  in  the  kitchen.  Both  her  father  and  mother 
were  out  wishing  goodbye  to  the  guests. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  END  OF  THE  PARTY 

DURING  Thomasine's  absence  all  quiet,  orderly  folk 
had  departed.  Only  men  remained,  and  they, 
mostly  shearers,  had  many  of  them  begun  the  even- 
ing in  a  condition  of  hilarious  mirth. 

The  spirit  of  the  party  had  completely  changed. 
It  was  just  this  fag-end  of  the  night  which  Thoma- 
sine  always  dreaded. 

A  scent  of  brandy  pervaded  the  whole  place — 
of  good  brandy,  as  any  competent  judge  might  have 
declared.  For,  now  and  then,  a  few  tubs  could  be 
run  upon  the  coast,  and  every  farmhouse  knew  the 
way  to  obtain  a  little  moonshine.  The  kettle  was 
steaming  away.  Every  shearer  grasped  a  steaming 
glass  in  his  hand  and  stirred  and  sipped,  and  sipped 
and  stirred — every  one,  except  the  old  Isaac  Cled- 
worth.  The  old  Isaac  was  at  that  moment  as  de- 
pendent upon  others  for  his  liquid  nourishment  as 
an  infant  put  out  to  nurse. 

They  had  packed  the  little  man  comfortably  into 
a  flour  sack,  and  tied  it  up  around  the  neck  so  that 
the  mouth  of  the  sack,  elegantly  turned  down  under 
the  chin,  might  be  as  handsome  as  an  old-world 


70      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

courtier's  ruff.  They  had  managed  to  hang  the 
old  Isaac  to  the  large  iron  crook  in  the  centre  of  the 
oaken  beam  that  crossed  the  middle  of  the  kitchen 
ceiling,  to  which,  in  days  gone  by,  after  pig- 
killing,  many  a  carcase  had  been  hung,  until,  under 
the  influence  of  Tamsin,  a  new  crook  was  set  up  in 
the  backhouse.  There  hung  the  tithing-man  of  the 
parish  of  Eddyford  in  his  flour  sack  as  snugly  as  a 
chrysalis  in  a  cocoon. 

"  Three  cheers  for  Squire  Scutt !  " 

The  old  Isaac  was  still  merry.  When  left  to 
himself  he  did  nothing  but  call  for  cheers. 

They  had  made  him  drunk. 

To  make  Isaac  Cledworth,  the  tithing-man,  drunk 
was  the  most  popular  joke  of  the  neighbourhood.  It 
was  a  good  joke  when  they  elected  him  tithing-man, 
a  post  for  which  he  was  chiefly  qualified  by  a  frailty 
that  dared  not  be  severe.  But  that  was  only  the 
second  best.  They  had  filled  his  glass  when  he  was 
not  looking  and  put  spirit  in  the  hot  water  jug.  They 
had  drunk  his  health  one  after  another  all  round 
the  party  without  giving  him  a  moment's  rest  to 
draw  breath.  And  all  this  was  done  in  the  interests 
of  science.  For  the  old  Isaac  when  drunk  presented 
a  very  interesting  phenomenon.  Good  liquor  went 
straight  to  his  legs — those  little  legs  in  lambs'  wool 
hose  and  breeches  with  the  three  brass  buttons  at  the 
knee.  But  as  to  his  head — a  man  could  treat  old  Isaac 
downright  handsomely,  and,  after  all,  not  get  the 
better  of  him  in  a  deal.  So  when  the  old  Isaac,  in  a 


THE  END  OF  THE  PARTY  71 

too  ambitious  attempt  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  sprawled 
on  the  floor,  out  of  considerate  kindness  and  for  fear 
he  might  fall  down  and  injure  himself,  they  had 
hung  him  up  to  the  beam.  Everybody  said  it  would 
be  a  wonderful  handy  way  to  carry  him  home,  too — 
in  a  sack. 

And  all  the  while  the  old  Isaac  kept  his  intellect 
clear. 

"  Three  more  cheers  for  Squire  Scutt." 

"  Shut  up !  "  cried  the  company. 

"I  be,"  replied  the  old  Isaac.  "  Three  more 
cheers " 

He  was  far  too  appreciative  of  the  attention 
shown  him  to  feel  resentment.  The  only  way  to 
silence  Isaac's  mirth  and  keep  him  from  cheering, 
was  for  one  of  the  company  to  stand  before  him, 
ready,  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  mouth,  to  administer 
refreshment  with  a  spoon. 

At  the  moment  when  this  was  being  done  the 
young  Isaac  came  in. 

Something  must  have  crossed  him,  for  he  was 
evidently  much  out  of  temper.  He  glanced  at  his 
father  and  then  scowled  on  the  company  around. 

"Who  did  that?" 

Nobody  answered.  At  another  time  the  young 
Isaac  might  have  laughed,  but  that  night  he  was  in 
no  humour  for  jesting. 

"  Three  more  cheers " 

"  If  I  knew  who  did  that,"  said  he,  "  I'd  twist  his 
neck." 


72      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

He  quickly  unhitched  his  parent  from  the  meat- 
hook,  chucked  him  down  upon  the  stone  floor, 
loosened  him  at  the  neck  and  unceremoniously 
shook  him  out  of  the  flour  sack,  from  head  to  foot 
as  white  as  a  miller. 

Tamsin  fled. 


73 


CHAPTER  VII 
JOHN  AND  JANE 

THE  grey  morning  light  was  creeping  over  the 
hills  and  the  stars  were  beginning  to  dim  before 
the  last  of  the  revellers  departed.  John  Scutt  and 
Jane  barred  the  door  behind  them  and  walked  back 
into  the  kitchen  together. 

"They  be  gone.     Thank  God!"  sighed  Jane. 

The  wooden  shutters  were  still  shut.  The  dark 
oaken  beams,  the  dresser  with  no  crockery  on  its 
shelves,  the  high-backed  settle,  set  back  against  the 
wall  to  give  more  room  for  the  dancing,  gave  a 
sombre  appearance  to  the  house  now  that  the  mirth 
was  gone  and  most  of  the  candles  had  burnt  out. 
Within  doors  there  was  no  sign  of  coming  day  except 
the  faint  light  which  fell  upon  the  hearth  through 
the  great  chimney  open  to  the  sky.  The  fire,  which 
had  boiled  the  kettle  for  the  parting  grog,  with  an 
uncertain  flicker  did  its  best  to  keep  alive,  but  the 
embers  were  buried  in  grey  ash.  John  Scutt  sat 
down  in  the  corner.  Jane  moved  slowly  to  and  fro 
setting  things  straight. 

"Tamsina-bed?  " 

"  I  sent  her  on,"  answered  Jane.     "  She  came 


74      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

down  by  now  when  the  place  was  a  bit  quiet.  She 
was  none  too  willing  to  go.  But  there's  no  need 
for  her  to  slave  an'  drag  her  hands  abroad.  I  can 
do  it." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Jane  raised  an 
end  of  the  heavy  settle  with  one  hand  and  lifted  it 
forward  as  easily  as  if  she  were  moving  an  empty 
pail. 

"  But  that's  enough  for  to-night.  There'll  be 
no  night  at  all  else.  An'  'tis  a  rest  to  close  your 
eyes  if  but  for  a  half  hour." 

Yet  Jane  did  not  go.  She  sat  down  on  the  settle 
itself,  stiff  and  angular  in  her  black  silk,  with  her 
brown  hands  against  her  sides  and  elbows  raised, 
her  favourite  attitude  in  moments  of  thought.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  John,  but  she  did  not  speak.  She 
sat  as  if  waiting  for  him.  He  rose,  poured  brandy 
into  a  glass  and  filled  it  with  water  from  the  kettle 
hanging  on  the  chimney-crook  over  the  fire 
and  went  back  into  the  corner.  But  he  held  his 
tongue. 

Jane  waited.  At  last  she  could  hold  her  peace 
no  longer. 

"  So,  John,  we've  won  our  wish,"  said  she,  with 
one  of  those  deep  sighs  with  which  Jane  was  a-wont 
to  receive  events  the  most  satisfactory. 

"  You  don't  seem  so  terrible  joyful,  Jane,  I  must 
say." 

"  I  do  think  two  ways,  an'  that's  gospel,"  said 
Jane,  with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "  Now  an'  again 


JOHN  AND  JANE  75 

I  do  wonder  how  'tis  all  going  to  turn  out  in  the 
end." 

John  looked  at  her  angrily. 

"  You  be  little  better  'an  a  old  crow,"  said  he, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "  Good  or  bad  all  your  talk  is 
croaking." 

"  I  do  mean  in  bringing  our  Tamsin  up  so  fine. 
There  was  a  time  years  agone,  when  folk  did  take 
to  the  child,  when  I  did  seem  to  think  the  finger  o' 
the  Almighty  was  in  it.  But  now  I  ben't  so  sure. 
An'  maybe  wi'  her  visits  to  gentry  she'll  come  to 
look  too  high  an'  be  left  by  herself,"  she  explained 
quickly. 

"  Well !  If  her  mind  is  too  high,  who  held  wi'  it 
all?" 

"  We  be  poor  mortals  all.  Bad  is  our  best. 
Who  can  tell  ?  " 

"John!  Tis  clear  as  day.  She's  all  eyes  for 
Master  Philip.  But  la!  He  did  scarce  look  our 
way.  Though — mind — he  did  eye  her  too — more  'an 
once  an'  more  'an  twice.  But  if  our  Tamsin  should 
catch  a  mind  to  he — an'  he — he  not  come  forward, 
so  to  speak,  our  Tamsin  is  not  one  to  overcome  a 
thing." 

"What  do  'ee  mean,  Jane?  "  he  asked,  impa- 
tiently. 

"  She's  so  nice  an'  so  naish,  an'  so  tender-like 
an'  so  delicate  in  mind  an'  ways.  She  can't  throw 
a  thought  off.  'Tis  there — an'  there  must  bide. 
Well,  now,  look  here.  Tis  but  a  week  agone  a 


76      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

rat  got  at  the  roll  o'  butter.  Nothing.  Just  a 
tooth-mark  and  a  line  where  he  had  a-touched  wi' 
his  tail.  Do  you  think  our  Tamsin  could  so  much 
as  look  at  the  rest  o'  it?  Not  she.  No.  Scrape 
it  how  you  would.  Not  a  bit  o'  it — not  o'  the  whole 
half  pound,  nor  pastry  neither.  No,  John,  our 
Tamsin  can't  forget.  An'  that's  how  she'll  be  if 
she  do  set  her  heart  on  a  man.  Why,  when  I  was 
a  maid  and  John  Frost  went  off  an'  wed  wi'  Jinny 
Croft,  night  an'  day  I  cried  my  eyes  out,  for  a  week. 
But  la!  I  laughed  off  to  church  wi'  you  'ithin  six 
months.  I'm  thinking  if  our  Tamsin  should  be 
crossed  she  may  bury  her  thoughts  in  a  coffin  o' 
silence,  but  she'll  go  to  her  grave  a  maid." 

"  'Nation  seize  the  woman.  You  do  grow  lean 
wi'  your  fears,  you  do.  What  have  'ee  had, 
Jane?  Just  a  thimbleful  too  much  o'  your  own 
brew." 

Jane  gave  no  heed  to  his  foolery,  but  with  a 
mournful  shake  of  the  head  went  on. 

"  Though  our  Tamsin  may  be  a  bit  off  hand  wi' 
some  o'  the  neighbours,  this  I  will  say — she  do  love 
her  parents." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  interrupted  John. 

"  If  she  do  say  a  thing,  John,  say  about  your 
clothes  or  to  warn  'ee  not  to  say  '  they  be  '  an'  '  they 
was,'  why,  'tis  half  in  fun  an''  wi'  a  smile.  She  do 
believe  in  we,  John.  If  her  schoolen  did  make  her 
look  down  'pon  her  home,  I — I  never  couldn't  bear 
it.  But  schoolen  have  only  raised  our  Tamsin.  Oh, 


JOHN  AND  JANE  77 

John !  John !  If  she  should  ever  feel  shame  of  her 
father  an'  mother 

"  Shut  up,  Jane.     You  do  dwally." 

"  Oh,  John !  If  she  should  ever  see  us  as  we 
truly  be!  That's  what  I  do  fear.  Day  an'  night 
I  do  fear  it." 

"  She've  a-got  eyes  in  her  head,  I  believe." 

"  But  as  we  truly  be,  John.  As  in  our  hearts  we 
do  know  we  truly  be." 

"  An'  what  be  we  worse  than  the  rest  ?  " 

"  Sinners  all.  We  be  but  woeful  sinners  one  an' 
all.  So  have  it  ever  a-been.  So  'tis.  An'  so  must 
be.  That  we  do  know.  But  our  Tamsin  do  look 
'pon  all  about  her  wi'  pure  eyes  that  don't  see  ah1." 

"  An'  won't  never  see  no  different.     So  shut  up." 

John  was  getting  crisp  in  his  temper.  This  sort 
of  talk  about  sinners  he  never  could  abide.  There 
could  be  no  more  need  to  prate  about  sins  than  to 
point  out  the  faults  in  your  own  horse. 

Jane  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  almost 
apologetic. 

"  I  suppose  'tis  being  the  only  one.  Do  make  me 
so  fearful.  An'  our  Tamsin  is  everywhere  so  much 
praised.  'Tis  terr'ble  unlucky  to  be  so  much 
praised.  I  do  fear  in  my  heart  we  shall  lost  her. 
La!  I  do  seem  that  if  she  should  marry  and 
go  the  light  'ud  be  gone  from  house.  If  we 
had  a-bred  her  up  like  ourselves  she  might  ha' 
stayed  near  home,  an'  one  of  ourselves.  I  can't 
seem  to  see  our  Tamsin  away  in  a  town,  nohow 


78      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

whatsoever.  Is  the  money  ready  for  Hatchbarrow, 
John?  " 

"  Very  near." 

"  All  o' it?" 

"  Soon  wiU." 

"  When  I  saw  Master  Philip  look — there  came 
in  the  very  inmost  thoughts  o'  my  soul  a  hope,  an' 
then  a  fear  to  hunt  the  hope  away  so  quick  as 
a  hawk  round  a  rick  after  a  linnet." 

"  Well,  cheer  up,  Jane.  Let  her  go  into  Netherton- 
town.  That's  the  best  chance  for  her.  There'll  be 
a  few  seafogs  afore  long,  please  God." 

Thus  admonished  Jane  did  as  she  was  bid,  dis- 
missed her  sins  and  her  melancholy  and  took  once 
more  a  practical  view  of  the  affairs  of  life. 

"  I  suppose,  John,  that  Hatchbarrow  coming  all 
to  one,  would  be  more  than  many  gentry  can  leave 
to  a  maid  where  there's  many  ?  " 

"  No  fear.  More  'an  Passon  Pilton  ever  had  of 
his  own  outside  the  living  to  will  away." 

"  More  'an  his  widow  can  have,  maybe  ?  " 

John  Scutt  gave  a  long  whistle,  then  laughed  out- 
right. 

"  Massy  'pon  us,  Jane!  Just  think  of  Mother 
Pilton's  face  if  she  could  hear  what  you've  a-been 
telling  up.  Ha!  ha!  How  the  chin  'ud  stick  out 
so  sharp  as  the  point  of  a  new  moon." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Jane.  "An'  a  nose  like 
the  back  of  a  reap  hook.  Tis  said  she's  not  well 
off." 


JOHN  AND  JANE  79 

"  Poor  as  a  crow." 

"  An'  proud  as  Lucifer,  I'll  warrant.  How  she 
did  use  to  manage  the  parish  to  be  sure.  We  was 
but  as  the  dirt  under  her  feet.  Do  'ee  mind  ?  " 

"  Ay,  all  in  it,  but  the  old  passon  hisself.  But  she 
can't  manage  Master  Philip,  I'll  bet  a  guinea.  Too 
much  mind  of  his  own — too  much  a  chip  o'  the  old 
block." 

Jane  laughed  again.  Some  of  the  great  people 
of  this  world,  who  take  themselves  so  seriously, 
might  be  surprised  could  they  know  how  the  respect- 
ful humble  forget  all  deference  when  they  talk  of 
them  behind  their  backs. 

After  all,  the  night  ended  quite  merrily,  although 
once  more  Jane  sighed. 

"  Well !  if  we  don't  make  haste,  there'll  be  scarce 
time  to  change  my  things,  much  more  get  a  wink 
o'  sleep,  afore  milking." 

She  turned  up  her  stiff  silk  skirt,  leant  over  the 
hearth  and  raked  up  the  embers  into  a  heap  with 
the  ashes  over  them.  She  took  two  kindling  sticks, 
one  in  each  hand,  and  drew  two  hearts  and  a  "  criss- 
cross "  on  the  mound. 

When  Jane  made  this  sign  on  the  sponge  in  baking, 
or  the  mash  in  brewing,  or  to  ensure  the  future  of  a 
newly  sown  onion  bed,  she  did  it  with  her  forefingers. 
But  at  bedtime  ashes  still  were  burning  hot.  She 
made  use  of  both  sticks  for  each  symbol,  placing 
them  together  at  the  top  of  the  heart  and  bringing 
them  round  to  meet  below  at  the  point.  The  two 


80      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

strokes  of  the  "  criss-cross  "  she  made  simultaneously, 
the  down  stroke  with  the  right  and  the  cross  stroke 
with  the  left  hand.  She  was  religiously  particular 
about  these  details.  Jane  Scutt  never  failed  to 
perform  this  ceremony  before  leaving  the  hearth  for 
the  night.  It  was  a  sure  spell  to  keep  away  the 
pixies  and  everything  unlucky,  and  Jane's  mind 
suffered  much  from  the  anticipation  of  ill  luck. 

This  achieved  she  went  comforted  to  bed. 

And  all  the  while,  in  the  room  overhead,  Tamsin, 
too  excited  to  sleep,  was  also  thinking  of  Philip  and 
of  Mrs.  Pilton  and  of  the  purchase  of  Hatchbarrow, 
and  of  everything,  in  fact,  that  might  make  or  mar 
the  course  of  that  true  love  which  did  not  promise 
to  run  too  smoothly. 


BOOK  II.  RETROSPECTION 


CHAPTER  I 
RETROSPECTION 

MORNING  grew.  A  soft  light  permeated  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  room  with  its  window  over  the 
porch.  When  the  sun  rose  above  the  hill-top,  a 
narrow  ray  peered  aslant  through  the  leaded 
panes,  cast  a  gleam  upon  the  floor  and  an 
upright  line  upon  the  whitewashed  wall.  Imper- 
ceptibly it  moved  and  broadened,  lighted  the  edge 
of  a  gilt  picture-frame  and  read  the  titles  on  the 
backs  of  volumes  in  the  low  bookcase  underneath. 
Perchance  at  first  it  had  but  come  to  peep  and  then, 
filled  with  astonishment,  was  enboldened  to  stay 
and  make  an  inventory. 

The  room  of  Tamsin  was  surely  the  most  sur- 
prising ever  seen  under  the  plain  thatched  roof  of  a 
moorland  homestead. 

The  walls  were  half  covered  with  sketches  in 
water-colour — sketches  of  the  moor,  of  the  river, 
of  quaint  village  nooks  in  Eddyford,  with  two, 
moreover,  of  a  bright-haired  child,  whom  the  most 
casual  acquaintance  of  Tamsin  might  have  identi- 
fied at  a  glance.  There  was  no  fireplace,  but  in 
one  of  the  nooks  formed  by  a  projecting  chimney 

G  2 


84      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

stood  a  pair  of  globes.  There  were  two  bookcases 
filled  with  books — not  the  mere  chance  collection 
that  one  finds  in  houses  where  people  do  not  read, 
but  some  of  them  daintily  bound  and  others  almost 
new.  There  were  pieces  of  furniture  from  a  region 
unexplored  by  the  elder  Scutts  and  indicating  a 
culture  unsuspected  and  remote. 

In  houses  like  Hatchbarrow  at  that  time  the  fur- 
niture was  mostly  of  oak,  ancient,  plain  and  digni- 
fied, some  of  it  built  in  the  days  of  the  Tudors.  Now 
and  then  it  was  handsome.  Jane  had  a  coffer  very 
richly  carved.  The  carving  was  rarely  to  be  seen, 
because  she  kept  the  front  turned  towards  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  Not  from  humility,  for  Jane  was  proud 
to  know  the  carving  there,  but  for  the  better  security 
of  the  keyhole.  Jane  kept  things  in  that  chest — 
the  sort  of  things  that  make  a  woman  of  a  sighing 
temperament  dream  of  robbers.  Whilst  a  robber 
was  turning  the  chest  to  get  at  the  keyhole  she  or 
John  was  to  spring  out  of  bed  and  knock  him  on 
the  head  with  an  ashen  cudgel  kept  ready  to  hand 
under  the  valance. 

But  Tamsin's  furniture  bore  no  relation  to  the 
life  of  the  Scutts.  There  was  a  mahogany  writing 
table  and  a  set  of  mahogany  chairs  so  light  and 
elegant  that  they  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
oaken  bedstead  and  washstand  of  her  childhood, 
which  kept  them  company. 

There  was  much  to  excite  the  imagination  in  this 
room,  with  its  window  over  the  porch. 


RETROSPECTION  85 

When  Tamsin,  in  obedience  to  her  mother,  went 
upstairs  morning  had  already  broken.  She  sat 
down  in  a  ferment  of  thought  and  emotions.  As  to 
going  to  bed,  she  was  never  more  wide-awake.  That 
first  prying  ray  of  sunlight  found  her  still  in  her 
white  frock  and  seated  before  the  writing  table. 
Tamsin  was  no  scribe,  and  neither  pens,  ink  nor 
paper  were  before  her.  Her  elbows  were  on  the 
table.  Her  head  rested  upon  her  hands.  The 
unexpected  occurrences  of  yesterday  kept  her  heart 
beating  and  her  head  in  a  whirl.  The  coming  of 
Philip,  his  kisses  and  the  joy  of  his  love,  the  know- 
ledge that  the  terrible  Mrs.  Pilton  had  been  told — 
that  ogre  in  the  background,  haunting  like  a  super- 
stition, and  who  was  indeed  a  superstition  since  she 
had  no  power  whatever  when  withstood — even  the 
purchase  of  Hatchbarrow — all  these  things  rushed 
through  her  mind,  jostling  each  other  into  endless 
and  fantastic  confusion. 

In  a  rapture  of  love,  she  called  upon  Philip.  The 
next  moment  she  was  in  Nether  ton  Street.  Mrs. 
Pilton,  whose  impressive  personality  had  been 
familiar  to  her  from  earliest  childhood,  stately  and 
severe,  was  advancing  towards  her  on  the  pavement. 
She  felt  her  cheeks  tingle  in  dread  of  the  encounter. 
Not  that  she  was  wanting  in  courage.  At  the 
merest  slight  she  would  have  fought  for  herself 
and  her  own.  The  sensibility  of  Thomasine 
conjured  up  fears  beyond  the  ills  that  life 
has  power  to  inflict.  She  lived  much  in  her 


86      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

imagination.     Happily  her   visions   were   innocent 
and  pure. 

Thomasine  was  very  much  alone. 

She  possessed  no  friend  in  the  world  to  whom  she 
could  discover  her  heart  and  soul. 

One  there  had  been  so  simple  and  kind,  that  even 
as  a  child,  Tamsin  had  been  fearless  in  the  presence 
of  so  transparent  a  simplicity.  But  that  one  had 
left  her.  To  her  she  would  have  talked,  and  even 
amidst  this  pageant  of  illusions  the  memory  of  that 
loved  countenance,  so  kind,  so  peaceful  in  its  quiet 
self-possession,  brought  calm.  Slowly  the  heated 
fancies  melted  away  and  Thomasine  began  to  think . 
of  things  as  they  were. 

Philip  had  never  before  spoken  of  going  abroad. 

That  interview  with  his  mother  must  have  been 
stormy  indeed,  since  it  could  make  him  wish  to 
change  the  course  of  his  life.  To  be  sure  he  had 
always  disliked  law. 

Why  should  he  not  turn  to  farming  here  ?  The 
suggestion  became  more  attractive  the  more  closely 
she  examined  it.  Surely,  if  her  father  could  save 
money  to  buy  Hatchbarrow,  he  could  teach  Philip 
how  to  succeed.  Thomasine  wished  she  might 
venture  to  discuss  it  with  her  father.  But  no! 
That  was  impossible.  To  ask  Philip  if  she  might 
tell  her  parents  would  look  like  want  of  trust  in 
him.  Her  father  would  do  much  rather  than  let 
her  go.  He  would  help  if  Philip's  money  were  not 
enough.  Surely  there  could  be  no  need  to  go.  She 


RETROSPECTION  87 

loved  this  moorland  country,  and  so  did  Philip.  And 
"abroad"  was  so  terribly  far  away. 

Thomasine  felt  very  much  alone.  To  possess 
a  secret  and  truly  keep  it  is  itself  a  loneliness. 

She  rose,  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  upon 
the  garden  and  the  barton,  where  she  had  run 
about  and  played  as  a  child.  Nobody  was  moving 
as  yet.  There  was  nothing  to  capture  the  attention 
or  distract.  And  lo !  an  incident  of  the  past  came 
vividly  back  to  her  mind.  With  all  its  details  as  it 
happened,  but  with  its  full  significance  understood, 
it  came  and  passed  as  rapidly  as  a  dream. 

Of  an  April  morning,  when  the  japonica  between 
the  window  and  the  porch  was  clad  in  crimson  and 
bees  were  all  at  work  in  the  smile  of  early  spring, 
there  came  a  stranger  rapping  on  the  hobnailed 
open  door.  A  bareheaded  child  watched  from  a 
little  garden  path  behind  the  daffodils.  The  lady 
was  laden,  like  a  gipsy  woman,  with  many  unknown 
and  perplexing  things.  She  knocked  again.  That 
was  usual  at  Hatchbarrow.  Few  strangers  came, 
and  the  door  was  open  to  let  in  sun  and  air.  People 
who  understood  walked  round  to  the  back.  The 
child  had  time  to  observe.  This  was  a  funny  lady 
all  in  black  of  a  week-day.  At  last  her  mother  came 
to  the  door. 

The  child  listened. 

"  Mrs.  Scutt  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Scutt." 


88      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  My  name  is  Airdrie.  I  have  taken  the  cottage 
by  the  bridge  at  Eddyford — but  I  dare  say  you  may 
have  heard " 

"  Well  now,"  replied  Mrs.  Scutt,  in  a  tone  of  un- 
willing concession  after  searching  her  memory  to 
make  quite  sure.  "  I  did  hear  say  in  the  parish  that 
a  lady  had  a-tookt  the  little  house  at  the  town's 
end." 

In  fact,  coming  out  of  Eddyford  church  of  a 
Sunday  for  weeks  past,  Mrs.  Scutt  had  revelled  in 
every  detail  as  to  the  letting  and  doing  up  of  that 
cottage  a  dozen  times  repeated.  Two  pounds  a 
year  rise  in  the  rent — very  high — four  new  steps 
in  the  staircase — an'  not  afore  'tis  time — thatcher 
to  make  good  the  roof — an'  want  it  too — paper 
for  the  parlour  walls  all  the  way  from  Exeter,  and 
a  red  carpet  in  the  downstair  room.  But  with  a 
"  foreigner  "  one  must  always  exercise  a  prudent 
reserve. 

"  I  came  to  ask  if  I  might  go  into  the  farmyard 
to  make  some  sketches?  " 

"  In  the  barton  ?    Oh !    For  certain  sure " 

"  And  I  shall  not  be  in  the  way  ?  " 

"  Not  one  mossel-bit." 

"  Nor  do  any  harm  ?  " 

"  No  harm  in  the  world.  Why,  there's  nothing 
there  but  the  fowls,  the  geese,  and  the  old  gander. 
Oh  no !  Come  this  way.  Tis  shorter.  An'  not  so 
much  mud " 

Still    talking    thus   hospitably,    Mrs.    Scutt   led 


RETROSPECTION  89 

the  way  all  along  the  front  of  the  house  by  the  bee- 
butts  to  the  little  gate,  and  they  passed  quickly  out 
of  sight. 

The  child  remainded  standing  by  the  daffodils, 
overawed  by  the  knowledge  that  an  unseen  stranger 
was  in  the  barton.  Not  until  long  after  all  was  quiet 
did  she  find  courage  to  creep  up  to  the  garden- 
hatch  and  peer  between  the  upright  pales. 

Wonder  of  wonders ! 

The  lady,  such  a  very  funny  lady,  with  a  long  thin 
face,  and  round  gold  spectacles  on  her  nose,  and  a 
bonnet  with  such  a  wide  brim,  and  a  great  big  bow 
tied  under  the  chin,  seated  on  a  great  X  for  Xerxes 
out  of  the  Alphabet  book,  was  washing  and  scrubbing 
a  dirty  piece  of  paper  with  a  beautiful  brush.  The 
child  longed  to  run  closer  and  look.  But  she  felt 
shy.  Moreover,  the  gander  with  the  old  goose  and 
the  yellow  goslings  were  just  on  the  other  side  of  the 
garden-hatch  and  the  child  was  at  war  with  all  full- 
grown  geese,  although  she  loved  the  goslings.  She 
ran  away — through  the  house — into  the  back  garden, 
where  red  hairy  palmers  used  to  live  on  a  gooseberry 
bush  and  beautiful  long  sticks  were  stuck  up  in  the 
ground  in  a  row.  There  she  armed  herself,  ran 
between  the  mows  away  from  the  stones  and  sting- 
ing nettles  in  the  corner  where  the  rats  lived,  and  so, 
bean-stalk  in  hand  she  came  into  the  barton  on 
the  other  side  and  stood  by  the  pound  house, 
where  sometimes  the  horse  went  round  and  round. 
There  she  stood  and  stared. 


90      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Jane  Scutt,  when  afterwards  talking  the  matter 
over  in  private,  estimated  the  age  of  the  new-comer 
as  "  somewhere  pretty  handy  about  three  score." 
but  in  the  eyes  of  the  child,  this  appeared  to  be 
a  very  old  lady  with  hair,  the  colour  of  the  tail 
of  old  "  Snowball "  the  cart  mare.  She  had  a 
wonderful  brown  mark  on  her  chin  with  hairs 
growing  on  it  like  the  long  grass  in  the  middle  of 
the  round  flower  knot. 

The  funny  lady  looked  up.  Then  beckoned  with 
her  finger. 

"Come  along,  little  marigold  and  forget-me- 
nots." 

The  child  took  three  steps  forward. 

"  Come  and  tell  me  your  name." 

"  Tamsin." 

"  And  where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Out  o'  back-house." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  how  did  you  get  here  at  all — 
you  little  golden-haired  infant  princess  straight 
out  of  the  Mabinogion ?  Eh?" 

"  Straight  -  out  -  of  -  the  -  Mabble  -  obble  -lorn," 
repeated  the  child,  beginning  with  slow  distinct 
articulation,  but  soon  getting  lost. 

:'  You  know  it,  do  you  ?  Then  where  did  you 
come  from  ?  " 

The  funny  lady  looked  into  the  child's  face  so  long, 
and  with  such  close  attention,  that  at  last  Tamsin 
was  driven  to  hazard  a  guess. 

"  Heabem." 


RETROSPECTION  91 

"Little  soul!" 

The  funny  lady  smiled  so  sweetly  on  Tamsin, 
and  said  the  words  with  such  gentle  kindness  that 
the  child's  confidence  was  won.  Then,  without  a 
moment  to  lose,  she  went  on  busily  brushing  the 
dirty  paper  that  would  not  become  clean. 

"  I  could  do  that,"  said  the  child. 

"  Tamsin,  I  verily  believe  you  could." 

"  I  could  do  that,"  repeated  Tamsin,  "  all  so  well 
as  you — if  I  had  that  little  brush — to  keep." 

"  Well !  If  I  give  you  the  little  brush — to  keep — 
how  long  will  you  stand  quite  still?  " 

"  All  day,"  said  the  child. 

"  Well,  Tamsin,  if  you  can  stand  still,  over  by  the 
geese,  whilst  I  tell  you  a  story,  when  it  is  finished, 
I'll  give  you  the  little  brush — to  keep !  " 

Tamsin  stood  still,  but  without  understanding 
exactly  what  was  meant.  She  had  never  been  told 
a  story. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  little  girl,  just 
as  big  as  Tamsin  Scutt,  and  she  wore  a  beautiful 
red  cloak " 

The  old  gander  knew  that  the  child  was  at  war 
with  the  geese.  He  waddled  forward,  stretched 
out  his  long  snake  neck  and  hissed.  But  the  child 
stood  still.  He  advanced  still  closer  until  his  yellow 
bill  almost  touched  the  little  pink  leg  between  the 
sock  and  the  knee.  The  child  remained  still.  The 
gander  was  lost  in  wonder.  He  had  never  in  his  life 
known  anything  so  strange.  Full  of  thought,  he 


92      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

waddled  back,  gabbled  the  news  into  the  ear  of  the 
mother  of  the  goslings,  and  came  no  more.  And 
the  story  went  on  from  improvised  wonder  to 
wonder,  such  as  no  child,  princess,  or  otherwise, 
ever  heard  before  or  since.  The  blue  eyes  opened 
wider  and  wider.  The  little  red  lips  parted,  but 
Tamsin  had  nothing  to  say.  Without  knowing  it, 
she  stood  still  until  at  last  the  story  came  to  an  end, 
just  as  her  mother  came  to  the  garden-hatch  and 
called — 

"  Tamsin !  Tamsin,  you  little  mommet,  where 
be?" 

"My  blessed  heart!"  exclaimed  Jane,  and 
threw  up  both  her  arms  in  admiration.  "  If  you 
ha'n't  a-tookt  off  our  Tamsin  to  the  life.  I  should 
know  her  if  I  did  meet  wi'  it  miles  away,  by  the 
little  old  washed-out  blue  pinny  wi'  the  strent." 

The  artist  was  very  pleased  to  hear  this,  and  they 
all  laughed  together  at  the  "  strent."  In  order  to 
take  a  peep  at  herself  in  a  picture  Tamsin  had 
drawn  quite  close  to  the  funny  lady.  When  they  had 
all  laughed  their  laughs  out,  thinking  of  the  brush 
to  keep,  she  shyly  hid  her  face  in  the  stranger's  lap. 
Presently  a  hand  gently  stroked  the  little  golden 
head,  and  once  more  softly  spoken  Tamsin  heard 
the  words: 

"Little  soul!" 

From  that  day  the  little  soul  possessed  a  friend. 
The  sketch  was  amongst  the  pictures  hanging  on 
the  wall  of  Tamsin's  room. 


RETROSPECTION  93 

Jane  Scutt  had  been  most  anxious  to  buy  it. 

"  Oh  ay !  "  said  she.  "  Tis  our  Tamsin  sure 
enough.  An'  didn't  take  so  wonderful  long  to  do, 
nother.  I  suppose  you  do  sell  your  pictures — now, 
I'll  find  a  crown  for  he,  I  will  sure,  because  'tis  our 
Tamsin.  That  is  if  a  crown  '11  buy  'un.  Ay.  I'll 
give  'ee  a  crown-piece." 

At  this  the  funny  lady  laughed  most  heartily,  but 
explained  that  the  picture  was  not  for  sale. 

Jane  was  quite  used  to  that  sort  of  tale,  one  of 
the  most  familiar  pretexts  for  raising  the  price  ever 
practised  in  moorland  horse  dealing. 

"  Well,  three  half-crowns  then.  I  should  rob  my- 
self if  I  did  say  a  penny  more  than  three  half- 
crowns." 

Jane  could  not  understand  why  an  offer  evidently 
received  with  exuberant  pleasure  should  meet  with 
refusal. 

"  I  couldn't  spring  no  higher  not  my  own  self," 
she  reflected,  "  but  John  may  be  in  any  minute,  an' 
if  he's  agreeable  to  put  out  half  a  sovereign,  I 
shan't  say  nothing  to  put  no  obstacle  in  his  way." 

The  lady  showed  no  sign  of  yielding  to  temptation, 
but  the  mother  of  Tamsin  did  not  on  that  account 
give  up  hope.  Transactions  of  magnitude  cannot 
be  arranged  all  of  a  moment.  Nor  did  she  become 
silent.  Mrs.  Airdrie  went  busily  on  with  her  work. 
All  the  while  Jane  Scutt  attentively  watched  and 
talked.  In  those  early  days  she  could  talk  by  the 
hour  about  Tamsin.  Little  Tamsin  stood  by  and 


94      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

drank  in  every  word.  Many  a  time  in  after  years 
did  she  laugh  at  the  recollection  of  the  quaint  scraps 
of  information  which  her  mother  imparted  with  such 
a  serious  simplicity. 

"  Have  you  a  large  family,  Mrs.  Scutt?  " 

"  Only  this  one.  We  never  thought  to  see  she. 
Fifteen  years  a  wife  afore  the  little  maid  corned  to 
take  a  peep  at  us.  An'  mother  haint  a-provided  'ee 
wi'  no  company.  Have  she,  Tamsin?  " 

"  I  never  had  a  child,"  said  Mrs.  Airdrie  sorrow- 
fully, without  looking  up  from  her  work. 

"  Tis  a  awesome  thing  at  times  to  have  but  one," 
explained  the  mother  of  Tamsin.  "I  do  verily 
tremble  at  times.  I  do.  There's  that  about  Tamsin 
now  and  again  to  make  a  mother  o'  one  quake.  I 
do  wonder  sometimes  whether  or  no  she  is  made  for 
this  world,  an'  whether  she'll  ever  bide  to  be 
reared  up.  I  do  truly  fear  she  can't  be  healthy.  Our 
Tamsin  is  so  wonderful  nice  and  delicate  in  her  mind 
like." 

"  How  so  ?  "    inquired  the  lady. 

"  Well  she  is.  A  body  couldn't  never  think.  Why 
for  days  after  our  Tamsin  first  took  heed  to  watch 
the  milking,  you  couldn'  get  she  to  touch  o'  milk. 
Coax  or  threaten,  not  a  drop.  I  had  to  comfort 
her  in  the  end,  she  shouldn'  never  have  nasty 
cow's  milk,  but  only  milk  out  o'  the  jug.  Mother 
did.  Didn'  mother,  Tamsin  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  soul!  "   interjected  the  lady. 

"  Now  I'll  tell  'ee  true.  Where  there's  but  one  an' 


RETROSPECTION  95 

no  neighbours  handy,  a  mother  must  look  for  any 
little  thing  to  amuse  a  chile  an'  keep  her  little  mind 
employed.  Besides  a  child  must  learn  by  what  she 
do  see,  an'  by  time  she's  old  enough  to  do  she  do  know. 
Now  back  in  the  cold  weather  I  said  to  Tamsin,  I 
said  '  Father  do  mean  to  kill  a  pig,  now  you  go  out 
an'  watch,  an'  if  you  be  a  good  little  maid,  when  he 
do  scald  un  he'll  let  you  help  un  scrape.  Why  'tis 
the  joy  o'  any  young  chile's  life  to  help  scrape  a 
pig.  Twas  mine  I  do  know.  Not  she!  No  sooner 
did  they  haul  poor  chuckey  up  an'  he  did  squealey — 
afore  the  knife  was  anywhere  a-nighst  to  stick  un, 
mind — than  Tamsin  must  run  into  house,  like  a 
rabbit  into  a  hole,  and  scream  herself  black  in  the 
face." 

Little  Tamsin  thought  the  funny  lady  screwed  up 
her  face  as  if  something  was  hurting  her. 

"  An'  now  here's  a  funny  thing — to  see  the  tasty 
victuals  our  Tamsin  can't  never  a-bear.  Show 
her  black  pudding.  She  do  turn  from  it.  Whitepot 
I  won't  say.  Well  say  a  little  bit  about  so  big  as  a 
candle  end.  No  more.  If  so  much.  Never.  Not  that. 
Notlins!  She  never  won't  touch  o'  'em.  Nor 
chitlins.  Nor  liver.  Nor  lights.  Nor  tripe.  Do 
really  make  a  mother's  mind  wonder  an'  fear  to 
think  o'  it.  Because  'tis  not  to  say  that  our 
Tamsin's  a  born  fool.  Tis  not.  She's  most  wonderful 
quick  to  learn.  Tell  her  but  once,  she  do  mind.  An' 
she'll  play  an'  talk  to  herself  morn  to  night  all  the 
day  through.  She  do  know  all  her  letters  m  ABC 


96       THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

book.  That  she  do.  Everyone  an'  point  'em  out 
true,  you  can't  puzzle  her.  Oh!  I  tell  'ee,  there's 
times  'tis  a  awesome  thing  to  be  the  mother  of 
a  only  one.  Zo  'tis." 

Mrs.  Airdrie  listened  for  the  most  part  with  smiling 
attention,  sometimes  casting  a  look  of  kindness 
upon  the  child  which  Thomasine  long  afterwards 
remembered.  The  mother  of  Tamsin  could  have 
spoken  of  many  more  wonders,  if  her  husband  had 
not  returned  to  bring  her  mind  back  to  serious 
business. 

She  at  once  explained  the  magnitude  of  her 
conditional  offer. 

"  Tis  a  goodish  bit  o'  money,"  hesitated  John. 
"  I  have  a-been  offered  a  picture  ready  framed 
an'  all  for  less.  Still!  I  shouldn't  so  very  much 
mind,  not  if  missus  do  wish." 

Having  thus  signified  his  willingness  to  run  to  ten 
shillings,  he  gazed  attentively  at  the  picture,  and 
at  once  proved  himself  a  frank  and  discriminating 
critic.  * 

He  pointed  at  Tamsin  herself  standing  there  in 
the  sunlight. 

"  Now,  look  at  the  little  maid's  head  how  you 
will,  the  hair  is  all  one  colour,  so  even  as  a  field 
o'  barley  goose-necked  and  fit  to  reap.  There 
idden  no  stroke  o'  white  straight  along  one  side 
o'  the  crown  same  as  you've  a-tookt  off.  At  the 
chile's  age,  'tis  not  to  be  expected — neither  bald 
nor  grey.  But  you've  a-got  it  paper  white." 


RETROSPECTION  97 

He  touched  the  drawing  with  the  tip  of  his 
ground-ash  stick,  and  proved  the  truth  of  his 
assertion  beyond  a  doubt.  It  was  impossible  for  the 
artist  to  offer  one  syllable  in  self  defence.  When 
talking  the  matter  over  years  later,  John  Scutt 
invariably  declared  "An'  she,  her  own  self,  couldn' 
say  no  ways  different." 

He  was  very  much  taken  with  such  reasonable 
quiet  acceptance  of  reproof.  It  encouraged  him  to 
push  the  deal.  From  the  depths  of  his  breeches 
pocket  he  drew  a  small  leathern  bag,  took  out  half 
a  sovereign  and  held  out  the  tempting  coin  on  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

"  There.  John  Scutt's  so  good  as  his  word,  an' 
there's  the  ten  shilling  piece.  Now  'twon't  take  'ee 
more  'an  half  a  minute.  You  just  yaller  the  chile's 
head.  The  money's  yours,  an'  missus,  I  don't 
doubt,  'ull  bring  'ee  in  a  dozen  o'  fresh  eggs  next 
time  she  do  make  a  journey  so  far  as  Eddyford 
town's  end." 

In  small  deals  John  had  often  found  a  hesitating 
seller  grasp  at  once  at  the  sight  of  the  colour  of 
ready  money. 

He  was  disappointed. 

"  I  do  not  think  the  drawing  is  quite  satisfactory," 
replied  Mrs.  Airdrie  with  quiet  modesty. 

To  be  sure,  the  finding  of  fault  does  sometimes 
make  a  seller  shy.  John  felt  that  encouragement 
was  needed. 

"  There's  nothing  in  this  world  wrong  about  un 

H 


98      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

except  'tis  that.  Just  yaller  the  little  head  o'  her — 
an'  I  don't  doubt  missus  'ull  throw  in  a  nice  tender 
pullet  along  wi'  the  dozen  o'  eggs." 

"  But  I  could  not  part  with  the  picture.  I  want 
to  keep  it  for  a  study." 

"  An'  a  half  pound  o'  fresh  butter." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,  but  really " 

"  An'  a  cup  o'  nice  thick  cream.  I  don't  doubt 
but  what  missus " 

But  Tamsin's  mother  hastened  to  intervene.  John 
was  talking  a  pretty  deal  too  fast.  If  not  stopped 
there  was  no  saying  where  he  might  go  to.  Cash  in 
the  bag  was,  and  should  be  always  under  the  control 
of  the  man ;  but  pullets,  eggs,  butter,  cream,  and  all 
such  produce  were  entirely  for  her  to  dispose  of. 

"  I  wouldn'  go  the  value  of  a  varden  vurder 
'an  that,"  she  said  gravely  but  with  firmness. 

"  It's  really  not  for  sale,"  said  the  artist. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  commercial  side  of  it. 
The  deal  fell  through.  But  Mrs.  Airdrie  had  spent  her 
life  in  a  land  of  imagination  and  ideals.  The  bright 
little  face  by  her  side  charmed  her.  Expectant 
longing  for  the  little  brush  at  that  moment  lighted 
it  into  a  finer  spirituality.  She  divined  in  the  child 
a  sensibility  miserably  out  of  place  in  those  rough 
surroundings  however  unaffected  and  honest.  She 
looked  with  pity  on  the  little  Tamsin,  as  happy  a 
child  nevertheless,  as  any  that  ran  about  under  the 
sun.  She  coveted  such  a  little  soul — to  teach  it — 
to  watch  over  it — to  love  it 


RETROSPECTION  99 

"  Tamsin  must  come  to  Eddy  ford  and  spend  the 
day  with  me,"  said  she.  "  Then  I  will  make  a  little 
drawing  on  purpose,  and  she  shall  bring  it  home 
as  a  present." 

The  invitation  filled  the  heart  of  Jane  Scutt  with 
pride.  The  day  was  fixed  without  difficulty.  Thus, 
quite  in  infancy  began  those  visits  to  gentry  which 
so  greatly  influenced  the  development  and  future  of 
Thomasine  Scutt. 

The  strange  lady,  who  thus  drifted  into  Hatch- 
barrow  Barton  that  spring  morning  and  anchored 
for  the  day,  was  the  widow  of  a  poet  of  whom  the 
world  has  scarcely  heard.  He  won  little  applause. 
His  reward  was  the  love  of  those  who  knew  him 
and  admired  his  work.  Just  a  line  or  two  in  the 
corner  of  a  journal  when  he  passed  away — then 
silence.  Yet  who  can  say  how  far  a  poet's  influence 
may  extend  ?  Who  shall  dare  to  set  a  limit  upon 
the  power  of  any  thought  that  ever  yet  found 
expression  ?  All  his  books  held  a  place  on  Thomas- 
ine's  sunlit  shelf,  and  she,  the  daughter  of  unin- 
structed  laborious  parents,  had  learnt  many  of  his 
poems  by  heart. 

And  if  sincere  work  is  rarely  wasted,  neither  is 
the  starvation  of  a  soul  through  want  of  oppor- 
tunity so  frequent  a  tragedy  as  one  might  be 
tempted  to  suppose.  Help  arrives  by  unknown 
paths  to  those  who  are  ready.  It  is  the  readiness  that 
is  the  essential  requirement,  and  finest  music 

H  2 


ioo    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

discoursing  to  a  crowd  must  pass  unheeded  by  all 
but  the  recipient  ear.  Creatures  of  a  kind  recognize 
their  kinship  when  they  meet  in  the  wilderness,  and 
pass  others  without  attention.  Had  little  Tamsin 
been  a  mere  child  of  the  barton,  she  might  have 
been  given  a  penny  to  run  back  into  the  garden  out 
of  the  way. 

Very  shortly  after  the  death  of  her  husband 
Mrs.  Airdrie  determined  to  leave  London.  She 
remembered  the  moorland  country,  which  some 
years  ago  they  had  visited  together,  and  returned 
to  look  at  it  once  more.  Late  in  the  summer  she 
paid  her  second  visit  to  Eddyford  when  the  moor 
was  a  feast  of  colour.  The  purple  of  the  heather 
was  passing  into  brown,  and  yellow  was  spreading 
amongst  the  bracken  on  the  hillside.  The  sparkling 
river,  the  soft  white  mist  that  hung  over  it  of  an 
evening,  the  blue  distance  with  sometimes  a  glimpse 
of  the  sea  and  the  quaint  old  homesteads  that 
sprinkled  the  solitudes  were  all  in  the  spirit  of  her 
art  of  water-colour  painting,  by  which  she  hoped 
to  add  a  very  simple  luxury  to  a  scarcely  sufficient 
income.  The  little  house  at  the  town's  end  was 
vacant.  It  offered  the  simplicity  and  quietude  for 
which  she  longed.  She  had  none  but  herself  to 
provide  for.  Her  means  would  just  enable  her  to 
live  in  frugal  comfort  in  such  a  village  as  Eddyford. 
Without  hesitation  she  took  the  cottage  and 
arranged  that  those  numerous  repairs  should  be 
put  in  hand  at  once,  so  that  everything  might 


RETROSPECTION  101 

be  got  ready  for  her  to  enter  early  in  the  following 
spring. 

She  came  at  Ladyday  and  had  been  settled  in  it 
little  more  than  a  week,  when  her  exploration  of 
the  neighbourhood  brought  her  to  the  door  of  the 
solitary  homestead  which  offered  such  a  striking 
landmark  to  every  part  of  the  moor. 

Oh !  That  first  occasion  upon  which  our  Tamsin 
went  out  to  spend  the  day ! 

Jane  meant  her  to  be  fine  then  and  no  mistake. 
Thomasine  remembered  well  how  she  was  brushed, 
combed,  scrubbed,  her  hair  tortured  into  ringlets 
around  her  mother's  finger  after  having  been  tied 
up  in  rags  all  the  night  through.  She  wore  the 
little  white  frock  made  for  the  last  Whitsuntide,  and 
by  that  time  full  short,  and  listened  with  awe 
to  her  mother's  parting  admonitions  impressively 
delivered.  "  Now  be  a  good  little  maid,  mind,  and 
be  sure  you  do  always  say  '  Thank  you  kindly  ' 
when  a  thing  is  handed,  an'  not  eat  too  much  figgy 
cake  to  make  yourself  bad,  an',  whatever  else  you 
do  do,  mind  to  pull  up  your  socks."  Then  she  was 
hoisted  up  into  the  high  two-wheeled  cart  for  her 
father  to  "  drop  her  to  Eddy  ford,"  on  his  way  to 
Netherton-town. 

What  a  day  the  child  spent ! 

It  was  a  visit  to  fairyland,  and  the  little  Tamsin 
soon  made  herself  at  home.  Mrs.  Airdrie  told  story 
after  story,  each  more  beautiful  than  the  last.  The 


102    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

child  soon  lost  all  fear  of  the  elderly  lady  solemnly 
attired  in  black.  The  oval  face  between  the  smooth 
grey  hair  was  always  smiling  and  kind,  and  Tamsin 
asked  question  after  question.  But  when  by  chance 
it  came  to  the  brownies  and  the  doing  of  the  kitchen 
work,  Tamsin  knew  exactly  where  she  was.  Then 
she  could  instruct.  , 

"  That's  the  pixies,"  cried  the  child. 

"  Yes,  the  pixies." 

Tamsin  told  all  the  stories  after  that — stories 
never  meant  for  her  ear,  but  which  she  had  heard 
many  a  time  sitting  in  silence,  her  basin  in  her  lap, 
on  her  little  footstool,  on  one  side  of  the  Hatch- 
barrow  hearth.  Her  parents  never  varied,  and  she 
could  repeat  them  nearly  word  for  word. 

"  Peter  Jay,  the  sexton,  he  were  a-catched  by 
the  pixies  one  time  out  by  Conygar  Wood.  That  was 
after  old  Abraham  Jay's  funeral.  Old  Abraham 
Jay  did  well  an'  left  money.  There  was  nothing 
wanting  to  show  respect  at  old  Abraham  Jay's 
funeral.  The  men  drinkt  twice  so  much  at  old 
Abraham  Jay's  funeral  as  all  what  was  put  out  at 
his  brother  John  Jay's  funeral.  Though  John  Jay 
was  one  very  well  liked,  John  Jay  did  not  do  so  well 
in  life  as  what  Abraham  Jay  did.  Peter  Jay,  the 
sexton,  couldn'  get  drunk  to  John  Jay's  funeral; 
but  he  stopped  last  to  Abraham  Jay's  funeral, 
because  to  be  sure,  Abraham  Jay  when  he  died, 
left  Peter  Jay,  the  sexton,  up  two  hundred  pound, 
an'  a  copper  kettle,  an'  his  old  mare,  an'  all  the  bed- 


RETROSPECTION  103 

linen.  Peter  Jay  wouldn'  ride  home  the  old  mare, 
not  that  dark  night  an  all,  because  they  wouldn'  let 
un.  But  he  said  he  might  so  well  carr'  on  the  copper 
kettle.  An'  somehow  or  another,  they  little  pixies 
led  Peter  Jay  into  Conygar  Wood,  up  a  mile  an'  a 
half  out  of  his  road,  an'  there  he  tumbled  down. 
An'  they  little  pixies  did  jump  all  roun'  and  did 
pinch  Peter  Jay  till  he  did  hollar  an'  blare  downright 
proper.  There  was  they  what  heard  it,  what  wasn't 
so  foolish  as  to  go  up  there  that  time  o'  night. 
An'  Peter  Jay  couldn'  kick  the  pixies,  because  they 
was  so  wonderful  dapper  to  hop  out  o'  the  way. 
An'  come  morning,  somebody  found  Peter  Jay,  wi' 
his  coat  off,  all  a-lying  down  along  straight  in  a  bed 
o'  sting-nettles,  sweet  asleep,  wi'  his  head  on  a 
emmet  heap.  But  they  little  pixies  at  the  going  off 
must  ha'  led  Peter  Jay,  the  sexton,  all  out  round 
like  for  miles.  For  the  father  o'  the  old  Isaac  Cled- 
worth,  then  alive,  found  the  copper  kettle,  up  a 
week  on,  up  on  Eddyford  common  and  smith,  he 
made  a  poorish  job  to  knock  out  where  he  was 
most  terrible  a-bulged  in  to  one  side,  all  across, 
handle  to  spout." 

Oh !  Tamsin  was  a  listener  to  some  purpose, 
though  nobody  at  Hatchbarrow  had  ever  found  out 
that  the  child's  ears  were  so  alert.  She  could  have 
told  half  the  familiar  lore  of  the  moorland.  And 
whilst  she  talked,  her  eyes  became  so  big  with 
wonder,  that  Mrs.  Airdrie  stopped  to  look  at  them. 
They  looked  so  frank  and  real  between  the 


104    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

little  rows  of  tight  artificial  ringlets.  Mrs.  Airdrie 
laughed  as  she  painted  the  company  ringlets.  And 
yet  something  in  Tamsin's  eyes,  remote  possibilities 
lying  in  the  very  depths  of  them,  made  her  feel 
sad. 

The  child  went  on  unasked. 

"  There's  witches  too  all  so  well  as  pixies. 
There's  they  about  do  say  the  old  aunt  Titcomb 
is  a  witch.  Mother,  she  don't  feel  all  so  sure  about 
that.  When  a  toad  do  crawl  into  house  that's  a 
witch.  You  must  take  the  toad  up  in  the  shovel 
or  wi'  the  tongs  an'  drop  un  into  fire.  Then  the  old 
witch  can't  do  no  more  harm.  If  you  don't  do  that 
the  witch  'ull  sure  to  witch  'ee.  She'll  come  an' 
ride  'pon  your  chest  every  night  o'  your  life  so 
as  your  sleep  is  no  good  to  'ee.  But  witches  can't 
come  and  hag-ride  'pon  good  little  girls,  if  they 
do  never  forget  to  kneel  down  an'  say  their  prayers 
afore  they  do  jump  into  bed. 

'  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John, 
Bless  the  bed  that  I  lie  on. 
Six  angels  about  my  bed, 
Two  to  foot  an'  two  to  head, 
An'  two  to  carr'  me  when  I  be  dead.' 

When  a  little  maid  do  say  her  prayers,  the  good 
angels  do  bide  by  your  bed  all  night,  an'  they  won't 
let  she  witch  'ee,  not  then,  and  if  you  should  chance 
to  die  they  do  carr'  the  little  maid  straight  off  to 
Heabem." 


RETROSPECTION  105 

The  thought  of  the  horrid  cruelty,  which  the  child 
surely  must  have  seen  practised  at  the  homestead 
to  speak  of  it  so  innocently,  had  scarcely  time  to 
inflict  a  shudder  upon  Mrs.  Airdrie,  before  it  was 
dispelled  by  the  child's  implicit  trust  in  the  power 
of  that  quaint  little  prayer  and  the  care  of  the  good 
angels.  From  habit,  and  in  complete  simplicity, 
Tamsin  had  put  her  hands  together  and  looked  up 
as  if  praying  in  real  earnest. 

"  Come  here,  little  soul.    Can  you  read?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tamsin  with  confidence. 

Mrs.  Airdrie  stretched  out  her  hand  and  took  a 
book  from  the  shelf. 

"  Girt  A.     An'  that's  girt  B." 

Tamsin  met  with  these  old  acquaintances  on  a 
new  page  with  pleasure,  but  her  only  idea  of  reading 
was  to  identify  individual  letters,  and  she  seemed 
to  know  the  whole  household  of  them. 

"  Would  you  like  to  learn  ?  " 

The  answer  was  a  prompt  affirmative. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  teach  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  WeU.    We  will  see  about  it." 

The  day  passed  very  happily.  Tamsin  did  not 
undergo  the  temptation  of  fat  figgy  cake,  but  it  is 
to  be  feared  the  child  was  horribly  neglectful  of 
her  socks.  Long  before  John  Scutt  called  on  his 
way  from  market  the  presentation  sketch  was 
not  only  finished  but  dry. 

On  his  homeward  way  down  the  village  street 


106    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

he  pulled  up  many  times  to  show  how  this  here 
Mrs.  Airdrie  had  a-tookt  off  our  Tamsin.  Sitting 
in  his  two- wheeled  cart,  he  held  the  picture  close 
beside  the  child's  head  and  pointed  with  the  handle 
of  the  whip  to  prove  that  the  colour  of  the  hair, 
verily  and  truly,  was  now  so  near  as  a  touch  to  a 
dead-match. 

Everybody  agreed  that  the  picture  was  "  the 
very  moral  o'  Tamsin,  eyes  an'  all."  Everybody 
seemed  surprised  at  the  completeness  of  the  work. 
In  point  of  fact,  and  this  was  the  greatest  wonder  of 
all,  nothing  of  really  vital  importance  to  the  face 
had  been  omitted. 

"  There's  her  little  mouth  wi'  the  little  pinch  in 
the  corner  an'  no  mistake,"  said  Peter  Jay. 

"  My  blessed  life!  The  lady  have  a-put  Tamsin's 
little  sharp-topped  nose  then,  sure  'nough,"  cried 
cousin  Jane  Peters. 

Isaac  Cledworth,  not  yet  "  old "  since  "  the 
little  Isaac  "  was  at  that  time  too  immature  for 
public  notice,  declared  that  look  it  over  like  a  man 
might  a  horse  or  a  bullock,  and,  one  after  another, 
take  point  by  point  like,  no  man  living  could  find 
anything  left  out. 

The  possession  of  such  a  treasure,  not  only  filled 
the  Scutts  with  pride,  but  inspired  confidence  in 
a  stranger  whom  the  parish  of  Eddyford  suspected 
of  eccentricity  and  still  regarded  with  doubt.  Jane 
readily  acceded  to  the  suggestion  that  Tamsin 
should  go  to  Mrs.  Airdrie  to  be  taught,  and  as  longer 


RETROSPECTION  107 

days  and  warmer  weather  were  now  to  be  expected, 
it  was  agreed  that  the  education  of  Tamsin  should 
begin  at  once. 

Oh!  Those  early  days  how  happy  they  were. 
The  lessons  were  so  brief,  and  Tamsin  found  them 
so  easy.  She  very  quickly  learnt  to  read  quite  well. 
They  went  out  upon  the  moor  together,  and  Tamsin 
spelling  out  the  long  words,  read  aloud,  whilst  Mrs. 
Airdrie  sketched. 

Legends,  poems,  the  old  Hebrew  stories,  and 
sometimes  the  too  excellent  tales  of  those  days  so 
full  of  little  prigs,  in  which  one  child  was  made 
to  be  so  incomprehensibly  wicked  in  order  that  all 
the  others  might  be  taught  to  become  so  intoler- 
ably good. 

They  read  something  of  every  sort.  But  the 
Arthurian  tales  pleased  Tamsin  the  most,  with 
the  pictures  of  the  knights  on  horseback  all  so  gay 
and  bold.  She  loved  to  hear  how  the  queen  rode  out 
on  the  hill  to  watch  the  hunting.  For  had  not 
Tamsin's  mother  taken  her  last  autumn  to  the 
Beacon  Head  to  see  the  great  red  stag  and  the 
hounds  and  all  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  gallop  by. 

On  other  days  they  searched  for  rare  plants  on 
the  moor,  Tamsin  being  shown  in  the  botany  book 
the  pictures  of  the  flowers  she  must  look  for.  Since 
there  was  no  scheme,  no  examination,  and  no  end 
in  view,  except  to  learn  the  thing  and  think  about 
it  for  its  own  sake,  in  the  warm  sympathy  and 


io8    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

simple  directness  of  her  kind  friend,  unconsciously 
the  mind  of  Tamsin  expanded  without  care  or 
weariness,  as  naturally  as  her  body  grew  in  the 
sunshine  and  fresh  breezes  of  the  moor. 

After  Tamsin  could  read  quite  well  and  was  just 
a  little  proud  of  it,  she  found  one  day  on  Mrs.  Air- 
drie's  table  an  open  book.  She  took  it  up  and  tried 
to  read.  She  knit  her  brows  and  tried  to  spell. 

Horrible  nightmare!  She  could  make  no  sense 
of  anything. 

Tamsin  was  almost  in  tears. 

That  morning  Mrs.  Airdrie  talked  to  her  of  other 
climes,  of  nations  over  the  seas  with  other  manners 
and  other  names  for  everything.  From  that  day 
they  began  to  play  a  little  game  of  asking  each  other 
the  names  of  familiar  objects  in  French.  Mrs. 
Airdrie  noticed  that  Tamsin  very  rarely  forgot. 
So  they  went  on  to  phrases,  and  at  last  could  talk 
together  quite  easily,  and  as  Tamsin  had  never 
been  puzzled  with  the  grammar,  she  made  but 
few  grammatical  mistakes. 

During  the  winter  months,  when  the  journeys  to 
and  fro  were  difficult,  the  child  paid  long  visits  to  the 
little  house  at  Eddyford  town's  end.  They  were 
often  kept  indoors  by  the  rain.  Sometimes  for  more 
than  a  month  together  the  moor  might  be  covered 
deep  in  snow.  Without  horses  and  taking  no  inter- 
est in  sport,  Mrs.  Airdrie  had  made  no  acquaintances 
in  the  neighbourhood  and  little  Tamsin  was  her 
only  companion.  Now  and  then,  when  the  ground 


RETROSPECTION  109 

was  frost-bound  and  hunting  impossible,  Mrs. 
Pilton  took  the  opportunity  to  pay  a  little  attention 
to  her  husband's  parishioners.  Thomasine  well 
remembered  the  conversation  on  one  of  these  occa- 
sions. 

The  afternoon  was  cold  and  the  sky  hidden  be- 
hind heavy  clouds.  Large  flakes  of  snow  went  drifting 
and  whirling  across  the  window-panes.  It  was  too 
dark  to  work,  too  early  to  light  the  lamp.  The 
easel  had  been  put  out  of  the  way  in  a  corner.  A 
bright  fire  of  turf  and  logs  was  blazing  on  the  dogs. 
It  was  one  of  those  hours  which  they  both  loved. 
Mrs.  Airdrie  would  sit  knitting  whilst  Thomasine 
read  aloud  as  long  as  there  was  light  enough  to  see. 
Then  Mrs.  Airdrie  talked  to  the  child  of  what  had 
been  read.  Thomasine  at  this  time  was  twelve 
years  of  age. 

"  To  love  everybody,  no  matter  whether  they  be 
rich  or  poor,  beautiful  or  ugly,  simply  because  they 
are  human  beings  like  one's  self — to  help  everybody 
who  needs  help — never  to  be  unkind  because  another 
is  unkind  to  you — never  to  be  harsh  or  cruel  to  any 
living  creature,  but  always  gentle  and  helpful  and 
kind — that  is  the  greatest  wisdom  that  has  ever 
been  taught.  To  forgive  everything,  even  unfair- 
ness, Thomasine,  and  forget  it  at  once — it  is  very 
difficult  to  understand  and  believe  and  many  people 
call  it  folly.  Nobody  who  is  vain  and  proud  ever 
can  believe  it — because  pride  always  wants  to  separate 


no    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

itself  from  others,  either  by  riches,  or  by  fame,  or 
perhaps  by  getting  power.  What  you  do,  you  must 
do  well,  your  very  best,  but  for  itself  and  not  for  these 
rewards.  And  you  need  have  no  fear.  If  you  can 
find  this  great  love  you  can  never  want,  because 
man's  real  wants  are  so  few.  If  you  can  see  this 
truth,  you  will  always  be  free " 

A  sharp  rat-tat,  on  the  brass  knocker  which 
adorned  the  front  door  of  the  little  house  at  Eddy- 
ford  town's  end,  put  a  sudden  end  to  this  instruction. 
The  child  drew  a  deep  sigh,  for  she  was  listening 
most  intently. 

A  minute  later  Mrs.  Pilton  entered,  bringing  with 
her  a  gust  of  the  cold  winter  air. 

Not  over  tall  and  rather  thin  than  stout,  she  was 
a  personage  in  Eddyford,  and  in  the  imagination  of 
Tamsin  appeared  to  fill  the  whole  parish.  She  came 
smiling,  talkative,  determined  to  be  pleasant  and 
quite  unconscious  of  the  slightly  patronizing  air 
with  which  she  bestowed  her  company  upon  a  lady, 
whom  she  never  met  anywhere  and  of  whose 
existence  nobody  seemed  to  know.  Overawed  by 
her  presence,  Tamsin  was  about  to  go. 

"  Restez  Id,.  Vous  aurez  froid  sans  feu,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Airdrie. 

'  You  need  not  go,  Tamsin,"  agreed  Mrs.  Pilton, 
benignly. 

Then  she  sat  down  to  talk.  Mrs.  Pilton  was  a 
great  talker,  and  most  of  all  prided  herself  that  she 
always  spoke  out  her  mind.  She  asserted  this 


RETROSPECTION  in 

constantly,  so  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it. 
Such  frankness  made  her  very  popular  amongst  her 
friends,  because  everybody  awaited  her  attack  upon 
somebody  else.  It  may  explain  also  why  John  and 
Jane  Scutt  always  remembered  her  by  the  nose  like 
a  reaphook  and  the  chin  like  the  point  of  a  new 
moon. 

Salutations  and  amenities  having  been  exchanged, 
Mrs.  Pilton  turned  to  Tamsin. 

"  Well,  Tamsin  Scutt.  You  may  think  yourself 
a  very  lucky  little  girl  that  anyone  should  take  the 
trouble  to  teach  you.  I  hope  you  are  grateful. 
Though,  I  must  say,  you  will  be  the  first  grateful 
person  born  in  Eddy  ford,  if  you  should  prove  to  be. 
Gratitude  is  not  indigenous  here,  Mrs.  Airdrie. 
And  that  Mrs.  Airdrie  in  her  kindness  will  not  spoil 
you  and  fill  your  mind  with  false  ideas.  Though 
sometimes  I  fear  it."  She  shook  her  head  and 
turned  again  to  Mrs.  Airdrie.  "  You  know,  I 
always  speak  out  my  mind." 

"But  why  suspect  me  of  false  ideas?  "  smiled 
Mrs.  Airdrie. 

"Not  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Airdrie.  Perfectly 
correct  ideas  become  false  when  they  get  out  of 
place.  I  always  speak  out  my  mind.  I  am  not  in 
favour  of  much  education  for  the  lower  orders. 
What  can  they,  in  their  station  of  life,  possibly 
require?  To  read,  so  that  they  may  read  their 
Bibles  and  Prayer  Books,  of  course.  To  add,  sub- 
tract, multiply  and  divide,  so  that  they  may  cast 


ii2    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

their  simple  accounts.  To  write,  so  that  they  may 
send  a  letter  if  it  should  happen  to  be  necessary. 
More  than  this,  believe  me,  is  positively  injurious." 

"  But  knowledge  surely  can  never  do  an  injury." 

"  By  altogether  upsetting  the  mind."  Mrs.  Pilton 
raised  both  hands  in  expostulation.  "  And  now  we 
are  upon  the  subject,  my  dear  Mrs.  Airdrie — 
French !  They  tell  me  this  child  can  jabber  French. 
Of  what  use  can  French  possibly  be  to  little  Tamsin 
Scutt,  a  farmer's  girl  ?  Unless,  of  course,  Tamsin's 
parents  intend  her  to  go  into  service.  In  which 
case,  if  Tamsin  should  be  a  lady's  maid,  and  it  seems 
to  me  she  may  grow  up  to  be  personally  suited  for 
such  a  situation,  her  ability  to  speak  French  might 
indeed  sometimes  prove  quite  serviceable  to  her 
mistress." 

Thomasine  remembered  that  Mrs.  Airdrie  laughed. 

"  The  child  is  quick,"  she  explained.  "  She  has 
learnt  a  little  French  as  a  pastime." 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Airdrie,  simple  country 
people  have  no  need  for  pastimes.  They  lead  the 
healthiest  lives  much  in  the  open  air.  They  have 
work.  They  have  rest.  What  more  can  people  in 
their  most  enviable  position  desire  ?  " 

"  There  must,  I  fear,  be  instances  of  mental  and 
spiritual  starvation." 

"  All  their  spiritual  needs,  my  dear  Mrs.  Air- 
drie, are  provided  for  by  the  church.  Mental  needs 
they  can  have  none,  unless  we  implant  them.  No, 
believe  me,  people  are  never  so  happy  as  when  they 


RETROSPECTION  113 

keep,  or  are  most  carefully  kept,  in  their  proper 
places.  And  I  fear  from  what  I  hear  in  the  village — 
I  always  speak  out  my  mind — that  Tamsin  may  be 
receiving  a  little  more  attention  than  can  be  good  for 
one  in  her  position." 

"  Well,  Tamsin,  let  us  hope  no  harm  will  come  to 
you  by  my  instrumentality,"  said  Mrs.  Airdrie,  and 
smiled  kindly  upon  the  child. 

"  Unless — of  course — "  added  Mrs.  Pilton,  very 
slowly  and  distinctly,  "  you  intend — to  do  something 
— for  Tamsin." 

Having  warmly  praised  a  drawing  on  the  easel, 
and  in  the  same  breath  explained  that  she  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  painting,  Mrs.  Pilton  pre- 
sently withdrew. 

Little  Tamsin,  listening  from  her  corner,  appre- 
hended that  Mrs.  Airdrie  had  suffered  rebuke  from 
the  great  Mrs.  Pilton.  And  Mrs.  Airdrie,  as  was 
but  natural,  appeared  to  be  depressed  in  conse- 
quence. There  was  no  more  reading  that  after- 
noon and  no  more  talk.  Long  after  the  lamp  was 
lighted,  Mrs.  Airdrie  sat  thoughtful  and  silent, 
watching  the  flames. 

Then  followed  a  time  during  which  the  child  was 
conscious  of  being  the  subject  of  secret  discussion. 

About  a  week  after  Mrs.  Pilton's  visit,  of  a  Sunday 
afternoon  because  her  father  would  be  at  leisure, 
Mrs.  Airdrie  walked  across  to  Hatchbarrow  and 
talked  in  the  parlour,  a  room  held  sacred  to  the  most 

i 


H4     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

important  occasions,  for  a  whole  hour  with  the 
parents  of  Tamsin.  What  was  then  said  Tamsin 
was  never  plainly  told.  Perhaps  her  parents  them- 
selves did  not  clearly  understand.  But  very  soon 
afterwards  she  was  told  that  she  was  to  go  to  the 
boarding-school,  and  her  heart  trembled  at  the 
thought.  On  the  eve  of  her  departure,  Mrs.  Airdrie 
implored  her  to  make  the  most  of  her  opportunities, 
and  Thomasine  worked  and  learnt,  partly  because 
she  loved  books  and  found  no  difficulty  in  learning, 
but  still  more  to  please  the  kind  friend  who  was  so 
good  to  her. 

In  due  course  followed  successes,  prizes  and 
approbation.  The  parents  of  Tamsin  looked  upon 
their  child  as  a  prodigy. 

During  those  years  of  school  Hatchbarrow  became 
full  of  mysterious  expectations  of  great  things  in 
store  for  "  our  Tamsin."  Thomasine  was  quick  to 
detect  the  unexpressed  belief  that  Mrs.  Airdrie 
would  some  day  "  leave  our  Tamsin  money." 
Nothing  was  said  of  this  openly  or  abroad,  for 
Eddyford  folk  are -envious  and  already  laughed  at 
the  schooling.  Moreover,  about  anything  concern- 
ing money  the  Scutts  were  secrecy  itself. 

During  the  holidays  her  mother  was  for  ever 
whispering  some  little  admonition  in  Tamsin's  ear. 

"  Whatever  you  do  do,  do  'ee  have  a  care  not  to 
do  nothing  to  affront  her,"  or,  "  If  she  should  ever 
speak  sharp,  don't  'ee  never  answer  back,  mind." 
And  when  Tamsin  declared  that  Mrs.  Airdrie  never 


RETROSPECTION  115 

did  so,  her  mother  became  more  deeply  mysterious. 
"  Then  mind  to  keep  your  eye  'pon  her  countenance, 
chile,  to  see  whether  she  do  take  a  thing  favourable 
or  no." 

Mrs.  Airdrie's  name  was  rarely  mentioned.  It 
had  given  place  to  an  impressive  "  her  "  or  "  she." 

Tamsin  remembered  how  her  father  would  sit  in 
his  chair  of  an  evening  and  make  strange  calculations 
based  on  "  her  "  necessary  expenditure,  rent,  taxes, 
service  and  housekeeping,  seeking  to  arrive  at  some 
conclusion  as  to  what  the  least  "  she  "  could  have 
must  be. 

"  An'  she's  not  the  one  to  lay  out  every  penny, 
I'll  be  bound,"  he  reflected. 

And  a  moment  later — 

"  Besides,  she  can't  go  to  Lunnon  twice  a  year, 
same  as  she  do,  without  money.  There's  the 
journey  two  ways,  an'  Lunnon  dear  as  fire." 

By  the  term  "  money  "  used  without  qualification 
Tamsin's  father  always  meant  "  wealth." 

Although  Thomasine  was  awake  to  these  hopes, 
she  was  young  and  light-hearted,  and  they  occupied 
small  place  in  her  mind.  As  she  grew  and  learnt, 
the  sympathy  between  her  and  her  solitary  friend 
became  always  more  deep.  As  her  understanding 
increased  their  love  became  more  intimate.  With 
a  touch  of  jealousy,  Jane  Scutt  sometimes  spoke 
of  "  she  "  in  a  tone  almost  slighting.  "  Make 
haste,  then.  Go  on.  Run  on  in  and  see 
your  second  mother,"  was  the  farewell  with  which 

I  2 


n6     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

she    often    dismissed    Thomasine    for    Eddyford 
town's  end. 

Thus  the  time  passed,  alternating  between  school 
and  holiday,  but  yielding  no  incident  that  left  any 
deep  impression  on  the  mind  of  Thomasine,  until 
about  three  years  before,  of  an  Easter,  she  came 
home  to  Hatchbarrow. 

The  festival  was  late  that  season.  The  daffodils 
and  the  japonica  were  again  in  full  flower,  and 
another  brood  of  goslings  ran  at  the  tail  of  the  old 
goose  in  the  barton.  She  spent  the  Sunday  in 
Eddyford  with  Mrs.  Airdrie,  and  after  morning 
church  they  took  a  steep  winding  path  through  a 
wood  on  the  coombe-side  to  climb  to  the  moor  on 
the  top. 

They  walked  very  slowly,  and  at  the  first  turn  of 
the  path  they  stopped. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  child.  You  will  very  soon 
be  a  woman  now.  Why,  you  are  as  tall  as  I,  Thomas- 
ine." 

The  buds  were  everywhere  breaking  into  green 
leaf.  Only  those  on  the  ash  remained  black  and 
winter  bound,  and  they  glistened  on  their  shining 
twigs  silver-edged  in  the  light.  Many  of  the  singing 
birds  had  returned. 

"  The  chiff-chaff !  Stop  again,  Thomasine !  That 
must  be  our  old  friend  of  last  summer  come  back  to 
the  same  place." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  Mrs.  Airdrie  made  excuses 


RETROSPECTION  117 

both  to  stop  and  to  prolong  the  pauses.  When  at 
last  they  reached  the  moor  she  sat  down  to  rest  on 
the  dry  heather  overhanging  a  bank.  She  was 
breathless  with  the  climb,  and  some  minutes  elapsed 
before  she  could  speak. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  Thomasine,  that  I  shall  be  able 
to  live  much  longer  in  Eddyford.  I  have  not  been 
strong  this  winter.  You  know  I  have  just  been 
away.  I  wanted  to  get  advice.  My  friends  wish 
me  to  go  back  to  London.  They  say  this  country 
cannot  suit  me.  I  fear  I  shall  have  to  obey." 

Thomasine  remembered  with  shame  her  inability 
to  make  any  reply.  At  first,  too  overcome  with  the 
fear  of  losing  her  friend,  she  scarcely  realized  that 
Mrs.  Airdrie  was  speaking  of  her  health.  Then  she 
tried  to  express  her  sorrow,  but  stammered  and 
could  not.  It  seemed  so  unkind,  so  unfeeling, 
to  find  herself  thus  altogether  tongue-tied.  Even 
that  morning  she  blushed  at  the  recollection  of  it. 

Mrs.  Airdrie  understood,  took  her  hand,  warmly 
pressed  it  and  held  it  in  her  own. 

Presently,  in  a  voice  low  and  sweet,  she  began  to 
speak.  There  was  in  her  manner  an  earnestness  so 
impressive,  an  affection  so  profound,  that  Thomasine 
listened  spellbound. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  very  much  of  late. 
Surely  it  can  never  be  possible  that  your  life  may  be 
the  less  happy  for  having  met  me!  The  thought 
troubles  me.  Believe  me,  Thomasine,  though  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  it,  all  happiness  comes  from 


n8     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

within.  Neither  wealth  nor  fame  nor  anything 
material  can  bring  it,  though  the  whole  world 
around  you  should  be  under  the  delusion  that  it 
can.  I  have  seen  it  for  myself.  There  are  two  things 
worth  having,  child — a  simple  mind  and  righteous- 
ness. With  these  there  is  nothing  can  do  you  any 
real  harm.  They  are  wings  to  surmount  any  mis- 
fortune or  disappointment  that  life  can  bring.  A 
simple  mind  suffers  no  self-deceit.  And  right  doing 
cannot  inflict  real  ill  upon  you,  if  it  should  demand 
everything  that  you  have.  I  have  been  rich  and  full 
of  wants,  and  very,  very  poor  and  contented.  But 
all  this  is  a  hard  lesson  and  takes  a  life-time  to 
learn." 

Mrs.  Airdrie  paused.  Emotion  had  rendered  her 
more  breathless  than  climbing  the  steep  hill.  With 
the  tip  of  her  umbrella  she  described  little  circles  in 
the  sand  of  the  wayside  gutter. 

"  You  might  have  been  happy  if  I  had  never  seen 
you,  or  had  left  you  as  you  were.  The  life  is  simple 
and  honest.  But  your  little  mind  was  so  quick. 
It  charmed  me  and  won  my  heart.  From  the 
moment  when  you  prattled  about  pixies  and  witches 
and  the  toad,  I  could  not  leave  you  without  help. 
When  you  come  home  next  time  you  will  leave 
school.  You  will  have  to  decide  on  the  future. 
Under  any  circumstances,  first  of  all  I  hope  to  take 
you  with  me  to  London.  We  will  talk  to  my 
friends  about  something  for  you  to  do.  If  you 
choose  it,  Thomasine,  we  will  carefully  prepare  for 


RETROSPECTION  119 

it,  so  that  you  may  do  it  well.  If  I  go  back  there, 
you  will  be  like  a  daughter  to  me.  If  you  remain 
here,  still  your  happiness  is  in  your  own  hands. 
Only  with  simplicity  do  what  is  right  and  you  will 
find  it  within  yourself.  Whenever  you  do  wrong 
sooner  or  later  you  will  suffer  '  In  the  house  of  the 
righteous  is  much  treasure :  but  in  the  revenues  of  the 
wicked  is  trouble.'  Do  right  and  what  you  have 
learnt  will  be  a  joy  and  a  resource  to  you.  Other- 
wise, after  all  our  talks,  you  will  only  have  piled  up 
a  little  heap  of  knowledge  without  increase  of  under- 
standing." 

She  had  become  very  emphatic.  She  drew  Tho- 
masine  towards  her  and  kissed  her.  Thomasine 
noticed  the  strange  blue  colour  of  her  lips. 

Then  she  rose  from  their  seat  on  the  heather. 

"  Come.  We  must  be  getting  on.  You  must  be 
hungry,  child." 

They  returned  through  the  wood  by  the  way  they 
had  come.  No  more  was  said  of  the  future.  Mrs 
Airdrie  regained  the  quiet  cheerfulness  which  was 
habitual  with  her.  They  were  happy  together  all 
the  afternoon,  and  in  the  evening  Thomasine  went 
back  to  Hatchbarrow. 

The  plan  for  Thomasine's  life  was  never  con- 
sidered, and  some  time  before  the  summer  holidays 
Mrs  Airdrie  had  left  Eddyford. 

Just  as  the  soft  twilight  came  creeping  over  the 
hills  at  the  end  of  a  sweet  day  in  May,  she 


120    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

returned  from  a  sketching  excursion,  sat  down  to 
rest  in  her  easy  chair  and  dropped  into  the  sleep 
from  which  none  ever  awakes. 

She  had  no  property — only  a  small  income  which 
passed  away  at  her  death.  She  had  no  debts.  A 
short  will  left  all  her  effects  to  Thomasine.  The  legacy 
consisted  only  of  books,  drawings  and  furniture. 

With  tender  sentiment,  Thomasine  had  sought,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  arrange  her  room  on  the  pattern 
of  the  sitting-room  in  the  little  house  at  Eddyford 
town's  end,  where  she  had  spent  so  many  happy 
hours.  Thus  came  this  little  oasis  of  culture  under 
a  roof  beneath  which  the  life  was  almost  primitive. 
It  was  even  more  alone  than  Hatchbarrow  sur- 
rounded by  its  moors. 

Very  soon  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Airdrie  began 
Thomasine' s  love  for  Philip — at  first,  a  secret  that 
she  almost  feared  to  admit  to  her  own  heart.  Then 
came  the  joy  of  his  avowal,  and  the  promises  made  in 
the  little  street  of  Netherton  town. 

Now  another  step  was  taken. 

"  Mrs.  Pilton  will  never  give  consent,"  she  said 
aloud. 

Thus  her  mind  was  brought  home  from  its  wander- 
ings to  the  place  from  which  it  had  started.  What- 
ever was  good  for  Philip  that  she  must  do.  She 
loved  him  far  too  well  to  have  any  doubt  as  to  that. 
But  to  leave  the  old  people,  and  cross  unknown  seas, 
even  with  Philip,  was  to  mingle  sadness  in  the  cup 
of  love. 


RETROSPECTION  121 

The  more  she  looked  at  it,  the  more  reasonable 
appeared  her  idea  that  Philip  might  farm  under  her 
father's  guidance.  Old  Parson  Pilton  farmed. 
Why  not  his  son?  Thomasine  decided  that,  by 
the  exercise  of  a  very  deep  diplomacy,  she  might 
find  out  what  sort  of  figure  a  gentleman  farmer 
appeared  in  her  father's  mind,  without  in  the  very 
slightest  degree  awakening  his  suspicion.  There 
could  be  no  breach  of  faith  in  that.  No  harm 
could  come  of  that. 

"  But  Mrs.  Pilton  will  never  give  consent,"  she 
repeated  more  emphatically  than  before. 


BOOK  III.  THE  REVENUE  OF  DOUBTS 
AND  FEARS 


125 


CHAPTER  I 
THOMASINE'S  DIPLOMACY 

HAYMAKING  came  and  passed  with  only  a  sprinkle 
of  rain,  and  John  Scutt  insisted,  to  the  annoyance 
of  Jane,  that  the  almanac,  though  now  and  then 
right,  was  more  often  a  liar. 

Philip  rode  over  on  business  more  than  once  during 
haymaking  and,  as  any  townsman  is  glad  to  do, 
stayed  to  help  save  the  hay. 

Once  he  arrived  of  an  evening  on  foot,  on  a  legal 
errand  so  unconvincing,  that  John  and  Jane  winked 
at  each  other  huge  winks,  terrible  convulsions, 
almost  as  disturbing  as  earthquakes,  and  then,  with 
excuses  obvious  as  the  winks,  went  out  and  left  the 
young  people  together. 

But  nothing  fresh  happened.  'There  was  only 
the  old  tale  to  tell. 

They  did  not  speak  of  Mrs.  Pilton,  but  the  argu- 
ments of  Thomasine  caused  Philip  to  see  that  farm- 
ing in  England  might  be  not  altogether  a  bad 
thing. 

In  the  matter  so  near  to  her  heart  as  the  settlement 
of  Philip  as  a  farmer  somewhere  near  Hatchbarrow, 
Tamsin  made  up  her  mind  to  act  with  the  deepest 


126     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

subtlety.  She  must  watch  for  a  moment  when 
weather  had  been  lucky  and  the  day's  work  had 
gone  well.  Then,  of  a  leisure  evening,  with  her 
father  in  the  best  of  spirits,  she  could  bring  round 
the  talk  to  farming  and,  without  mention  of  Philip's 
name,  or  awakening  any  suspicion  whatever,  learn 
all  that  she  wanted  to  know. 

At  last  came  harvest,  the  most  glorious  harvest 
in  the  memory  of  Eddyford,  with  a  sun  as  bright 
as  summer. 

All  day  long  heavy  loads  came  creaking  home 
to  the  mow-barton.  Ruddy  cornfields  changed 
to  pale  stubble,  and  one  after  another  the  stacks 
arose  on  the  other  side  of  the  garden  wall.  John 
Scutt  had  got  hold  of  the  thatcher.  That  was 
a  source  of  great  delight  to  him.  It  was  a  busy 
season,  with  everybody's  work  coming  at  once,  and 
he  might  have  had  to  wait.  Now  somebody  else 
was  waiting,  which  was  a  far  better  arrangement. 
John  Scutt  was  greatly  pleased  with  himself  in  this 
matter  of  the  thatcher.  When  he  went  out  and 
when  he  came  in,  sure  enough,  there  was  the 
thatcher,  perched  up  upon  his  ladder  against  the 
yellow  straw.  Getting  served  first  is  the  sort  of 
triumph  to  make  a  man  proud. 

Yet  Tamsin  waited  long.  More  than  one  oppor- 
tunity did  she  allow  to  pass  before  she  found  courage 
to  speak  even  secretly  of  a  matter  so  close  to  her 
heart. 

There  came  a  quiet  afternoon  in  the  work  at 


THOMASINE'S  DIPLOMACY  127 

Hatchbarrow.  The  last  piece  of  wheat  had  been 
cut  and  the  sheaves,  set  up  in  stitch,  stood  in  even 
rows  across  the  square  field  on  the  hillside,  only 
waiting  for  to-morrow..  Hatchbarrow  teams  were 
away,  "  lending  a  hand  to  neighbour  Cledworth," 
who  was  "  a  bit  behind  to  year."  But  John  Scutt 
had  stayed  at  home,  and  whilst  he  set  ready  the 
vacant  staddles  for  the  last  stack  before  Harvest- 
home,  he  carried  on  a  running  talk  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  with  thatcher  Joyce  mounted  on  the  ridge  of 
the  new-made  mow  close  by. 

"  A  mow  more  to  year  than  ever  afore  I  covered 
to  Hatchbarrow  in  all  my  life,"  cried  thatcher 
Joyce. 

"  Do  want  un,  too,"  John  Scutt  affected  to 
grumble,  though  his  face  was  glad,  "  to  make  up 
for  two  years  agone  when  the  sheaves  stood  out  an' 
rotted  in  the  rain." 

Thatcher  Joyce  was  not  a  scholar.  He  was  only 
a  grey-headed  man  of  gifts.  Everybody  around 
Eddyford  admired  to  hear  him  "  discoose,"  by 
which  was  meant  talk  at  length  with  some  sense 
at  the  back  of  it. 

Thus  wisdom  came  shouted  from  the  top  of  a 
stack. 

"  Now  what  I  do  say  is  this.  Bad  years  mus' 
come.  Zo  tes.  Zo  't  have  ever  a-been.  Zo  ever 
shall  be.  Such  the  plan — from  creation  to  the  end 
of  the  wordle.  Now,  mark  me !  What  I  do  say  is 
this.  Catch  hold  when  you  can.  What  God 


128    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

A'mighty  don't  send  man  can't  have.  But  when  God 
A'mighty  out  o'  his  Heabem  above  do  pour  out  the 
hand  o'  plenty,  let  man  stand  by  below  to  hold  up 
the  bucket  ready.  Missed  is  lost.  Past  is  gone. 
If  not  garnered — never  called  back.  But  this 
I  will  say,  Mr.  John  Scutt  don't  let  much  slip  that 
his  fist  can  close  upon." 

Tamsin  in  the  garden,  picking  her  lavender, 
saw  the  thatcher  on  high  thrust  in  a  spar  and 
hammer  it  home  with  uncommon  vigour,  as  if  he 
were  clinching  his  argument. 

She  stood  up  to  listen,  for  she  liked  his  talk. 

"  I  can't  a'bear  to  see  waste — never  couldn't," 
cried  her  father. 

"  No  man  need  bend  his  back  to  pick  up  what 
you  do  let  drop,  John  Scutt.  An'  yet  folk  do  won- 
der at  your  wealth.  But  Lord !  Other  things  besides 
kittens  be  born  blind.  An'  there's  staid  folk  in  this 
parish,  to  my  mind,  wi'  their  eyes  not  yet  open  to 
sense." 

"  There's  some  most  terrible  slack-twisted  farm- 
ing about,  I  do  allow,"  agreed  her  father. 

"  Now  what  I  do  say  is  this.  Life  is  all  o'  one 
piece  like,  take  it  all  drough.  The  slacker  the  man 
to  work  the  slacker  the  tongue  to  grumble.  'Tis  a 
hard  world  for  the  lazy,  look  at  it  how  you  will, 
for  they  alone  have  a-got  eyes  to  mark  where  the 
faults  do  truly  lie.  Oh !  Ay !  they  be  the  grumblers 
in  good  right.  'Tis  none  but  they  have  a-got  time 
to  look  into  the  shortcomings  o'  God  A'mighty 


THOMASINE'S  DIPLOMACY  129 

proper  well.  Now  what  I  do  say  is  this.  There's 
one  above.  Mus'  be.  We  be  below.  Who  can 
doubt  it.  An'  times  an'  seasons  be  the  same  for  all 
mankind." 

In  that  old  dogmatic  manner  of  his,  which  left 
nothing  more  to  be  said,  John  Scutt  summed  up 
the  whole  matter. 

"  A  man  can  do  well  enough  at  the  farming — if 
he  do  only  take  advantage  o'  the  weather,  act  wi' 
sense — an'  work." 

Here,  then,  was  her  father  giving  an  opinion  un- 
asked to  the  question  she  feared  to  put.  If  she 
could  but  catch  him  now,  before  the  thought  was 
gone,  it  would  be  his,  not  hers.  Tamsin  dropped 
her  lavender,  laid  her  scissors  on  the  window-sill 
as  she  passed,  and  ran  towards  the  mow-barton. 

At  the  gate  she  almost  bounced  into  her  father 
coming  away.  He  was  smiling  and  very  pleased. 
The  stacks,  thatcher's  appreciation,  the  wonderful 
summer  crowned  with  an  abundant  harvest,  now  so 
near  upon  completion — everything  was  lucky  and 
well. 

John  Scutt  greeted  his  daughter  with  boisterous 
good-humour. 

"Hullo,  Tamsin!  Here  you  do  come — head 
first — full  butt — as  folk  do  say.  Where  off  then  ?  " 

"  Where  are  you  off  ?"  returned  the  girl. 

"  Why,  to  look  at  to-morrow's  work,  to  be  sure. 
Where  else?  " 

"  I'm  on  the  same  errand." 

K 


130   THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  What  work  have  you  got — you  little  bit  of  a 
chiney  ornament  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  walk  up  and  see  about  hauling  my 
wheat,  to  be  sure.  Where  else?  " 

Tamsin  laughed  at  him — even  mimicked  his  short 
way  to  his  face. 

John  Scutt  dearly  loved  such  little  quibbles  with 
Tamsin.  He  gave  a  great  guffaw,  and  shook  his 
head  and  looked  at  her  with  an  affectation  of  surprise 
at  her  impudence. 

"  Come  along  then,  farmer.  As  much  yours  as 
mine,  maybe,  for  all  I  do  know." 

Side  by  side  they  started  down  the  lane. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  farmer,"  said  Tamsin. 

John  Scutt  held  up  his  finger  in  warning. 

"  Ah,  you'd  pretty  quick  end  in  workhouse." 

"  Not  at  all.  Many  women  have  been  very  good 
farmers.  I  should  take  care  to  hold  up  the  bucket 
to  the  hand  of  plenty.  I  heard  what  thatcher 
said." 

"  Tamsin,  my  chile.  I  do  hear  what  they  do  all 
say.  There's  a  deal  o'  soft  soap  about  thatcher. 
But  their  praise  don't  suck  your  father  in.  When 
folk  do  talk,  Tamsin,  I  do  listen  so  close  that  I  can 
most  times  hear  the  thought  behind." 

Tamsin  smiled  within  herself. 

"  But  everybody  else  says  the  same  as  thatcher 
that  you've  done  better,  father,  than  anybody 
around  here." 

John  Scutt  almost  frowned. 


THOMASINE'S  DIPLOMACY  131 

"  May  be." 

"  Now  would  that  be  because  you  know  more 
than  the  rest,  father?  " 

John  Scutt's  frown. melted  into  a  smile.  Really, 
now,  our  Tamsin  was  a  maid  with  a  wonderfully 
innocent  way  of  her  own. 

"  That  I  can't  say,  chile,  my  own  self.  That  I 
must  leave  to  the  rest.  But  I  do  aim  to  do  all  I 
do  know." 

"  Could  you  teach  anybody  else  to  do  as  well 
as  you?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  see  what  you  do  mean,  Tamsin." 

Determined  to  make  the  point  clear,  Tamsin 
became  slowly  and  clearly  argumentative. 

"Well!  A  man  can  grow  rich  at  farming — 
because  you  have.  If  that  is  because  you  know 
more — you  could  tell  another.  If  you  had  a  neigh- 
bour to  whom  you  wished  well,  if  you  were  to  give 
him  advice — the  best  advice — why  shouldn't  he  do 
quite  as  well?  " 

When  secretly  amused,  John  Scutt  had  a  way  of 
half  closing  one  eye.  He  did  it  now. 

"  He'd  never  take  it." 

"But  if  he  did?  " 

"  They  never  do,  Tamsin,  my  dear.  The  bigger 
the  fool  the  more  nogheaded  an'  the  more  pig- 
headed." 

"  But  I  did  not  mean  a  fool,  father,"  answered 
the  girl  quickly.  "  Say  one  clever  enough  to  know 
that  he  did  not  know  much." 

K  2 


132    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  But  show  un  to  me  first,  Tamsin.  If  there  is 
one  about  such  as  you  say,  he  ought  to  get  on.  Why 
not?  " 

Tamsin  walked  on  in  silence,  constantly  repeating 
in  her  heart  her  father's  question,  "  Why  not  ?  " 

They  entered  the  wheat  field  and  wandered 
amongst  the  sheaves.  Truly,  this  would  be  better 
for  Philip  than  a  dingy  office  in  a  town.  Her  father 
laughed  once  more,  called  her  farmer,  and  inquired 
when  she  was  going  to  haul.  Tamsin  told  him  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning,  for  the  trumpery  weed 
was  all  withered,  the  straw  dry,  and  the  berry  full 
if  not  over-ripe,  and  might  have  been  stacked  a  week 
agone. 

"  I  rather  blame  myself  for  being  a  little  slack," 
said  she,  imitating  the  stock  excuses  she  had  so 
often  heard.  "  But  there !  At  harvest  time  and 
fine  weather  something  must  go  on  one  side.  It 
must.  A  man  can't  be  everywhere.  Something 
has  to  be  left.  It  has — it  must,  when  so  many 
things  come  all  at  once." 

John  Scutt  roared  with  laughter.  He  delighted 
in  such  comedy. 

"  You  must  wed  wi'  a  farmer,  Tamsin,  my  dear, 
and  then  you  can  advise." 

Then  it  was  Tamsin's  turn  to  shake  a  finger  at 
him. 

"  Ah  !  what  did  you  tell  me  ?  If  I  marry  a  fool, 
he  won't  take  it.  But,  father,  if  he  should  take  it, 
what  will  he  be?  " 


THOMASINE'S  DIPLOMACY  133 

"  I'll  come  along  an'  whisper  in  your  ear  what  to 
advise,  Tamsin." 

"  You  must  wait  until  I  find  him.  Then  you  can 
teach  him  yourself." 

"  If  he  should  have  land  and  not  knowledge,  I'll 
teach  un  like  a  son,  Tamsin." 

"  When  people  once  get  talking  what  nonsense 
people  do  sometimes  talk,"  reflected  Tamsin,  with 
ever  so  little  a  pout  of  discontent. 

"  Talking's  a  pastime,  chile.  An'  there's  no 
harm  in  a  laugh." 

"  And  to  think  that  all  this  should  have  grown 
out  of  thatcher's  nonsense.  It  is  really  laughable 
after  all.  Because,  of  course,  if  I  had  thought  a 
minute,  old  Parson  Pilton  did-  farm  his  glebe,  as 
everybody  said,  wonderfully  well.  And  he  couldn't 
have  known  much  about  it  when  he  came  here. 
Could  he?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  One  o'  these  college  chaps. 
Grew  up  in  the  country — no  doubt." 

"Who  advised  him?  " 

"  All  the  parish.     I  did — mostly." 

"  Did  he  make  it  answer,  father?  " 

"  First  rate.  Only  he  was  such  a  one  to  spend  it 
afore  he  had  it  in  hand  like." 

"Did  he  look  after  it?" 

"  Like  a  hawk.  To  be  sure,  he  never  put  his 
hand  to  plough.  But,  there,  the  value  o'  one  pair 
o'  hands  is  soon  counted.  Old  passon  was  for  ever 
casting  his  eye  about.  Ho!  ho!  He  looked  after 


134    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

that  flock,  whatever  happed  to  t'other.  He  did 
well.  Passon  did." 

"  Then  that  clearly  proves,"  said  Tamsin  care- 
lessly, "  that  thatcher  was  right  about  the 
grumblers.  It  is  strange  what  a  little  thing  will 
set  one's  mind  thinking — and  all  about  nothing, 
too." 

"  That's  true,"  agreed  John  Scutt. 

He  stopped  to  set  up  a  fallen  sheaf,  and  then 
stood  rubbing  his  chin  between  finger  and  thumb, 
apparently  listening  with  thoughtful  enjoyment  to 
the  rasping  sound  made  by  the  stubbly  growth  of 
his  unshorn  beard. 

"  Yet  there's  a  difference  in  men.  To  be  sure — 
Passon  Pilton — well — he  had  the  gift " 

He  paused  and  thoughtfully  rubbed  his  chin 
again.  Suddenly  he  turned,  looked  Tamsin  straight 
in  the  face,  and  spoke  quite  gaily. 

"  Now,  young  Master  Philip.  There's  one  could 
do  it.  He'd  get  on  better  at  the  farmering  than 
ever  he  will  at  the  lawyering — ha!  ha!  I'll  bet  a 
guinea  he  would.  I  could  see  that  when  he  was 
over  here  in  the  hayfield,  and  when  he  came  t'other 
night.  I  do  like  Master  Philip.  I  should  dearly 
like  to  show  Master  Philip." 

Tamsin  turned  away,  picked  an  ear,  and  rubbed 
out  the  wheat  between  her  hands.  Here  was  an 
answer  to  her  thoughts  direct  and  plain.  Yet  her 
father  had  spoken  so  spontaneously  and  everything 
had  followed  in  a  manner  so  natural  that  Tamsin 


THOMASINE'S  DIPLOMACY  135 

walked  home  happy  in  the  assurance  that  all  was 
well  and  her  secret  well  kept. 

But  John  said  to  Jane  : 

"  Our  Tamsin  is  no  better  'an  a  glass  bottle. 
She's  bright  as  a  crystal  in  herself  like,  but  'tis 
easy  to  see  the  colour  o'  what's  inside.  Her  mind 
do  shine  through  she,  so  clear  as  the  blue  stuff  in 
the  girt  vase  thing  in  the  'pothecary's  window  into 
Netherton-town.  She  an'  Master  Philip  be  o'  one 
mind.  He  do  want  to  go  a-farmering  an'  she  do 
hold  wi'  it.  She  flushed  up  redder  than  any  poppy 
that  ever  grew  in  corn  when  I  did  but  speak  his 
name,  by  chance  like,  looking  at  the  wheat.  Sound 
her,  missus.  Take  a  quiet  moment  and  sound  the 
maid." 


136 


CHAPTER  II 
DEEP  SOUNDINGS 

THE  efforts  of  Jane  to  sound  the  maid,  although 
frequent,  were  not  attended  with  any  conclusive 
success.  The  thought  of  Master  Philip  as  a  mate 
for  Tamsin  was  never  absent  from  her  mind.  When 
alone  she  muttered  to  herself  about  it  over  her 
work.  When  asleep  she  dreamed  of  it;  and  often 
lay  awake  at  night,  turning  the  matter  over  and 
over  again,  like  hay  in  showery  weather,  and 
sighing,  whilst  John  snored. 

She  had  none  of  the  secrecy  and  cunning  that 
John  had  learned  at  market  and  fair.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  Jane's  efforts  in  diplomacy  lacked 
finesse.  Her  finest  ruse  was  but  a  slow-going  affair, 
as  obvious  as  a  waggon  and  team  with  bells  climbing 
a  hard  road  up  a  high  hill.  Tamsin  merely  stepped 
out  of  the  way  with  a  superior  nimbleness  of  phrase. 
More  than  once  Jane  shook  her  discomfited  head 
and,  with  a  sigh,  informed  her  husband  that  "  a 
body  mid  zoun',  an'  zoun',  an'  zoun,  but  never 
fathom  the  bottom  o'  one  so  deep." 

Yet  Master  Philip's  supposed  love  for  Tamsin 
was  the  one  gleam  of  romance  in  an  otherwise 


DEEP  SOUNDINGS  137 

laborious  and  matter-of-fact  life.  The  wish  for  it 
was  not  inspired  by  social  ambition.  Both  John 
and  Jane  were  too  plain  and  independent  for  that. 
It  was  Tamsin's  good  that  her  parents  had  at  heart. 

In  Jane's  experience  love  was  little  more  than 
a  rough-and-ready  wooing,  speedily  terminated 
by  a  ceremony  in  the  parish  church.  Then  every- 
thing ended  except  hard  work.  But  Tamsin  was 
one  apart.  Heated  by  admiration  and  love,  the 
imagination  of  Jane  dimly  pictured  a  passion  and 
a  romance  more  rare — the  exceptional  love  of  the 
old  ballad  song,  in  which  the  squire  or  the  lawyer 
meets  the  humble  shepherdess  and  proposes  to  her 
out  of  hand  ;  or  the  other,  wherein  the  maiden, 
having  loved  too  readily  above  her  station,  is  de- 
serted, sings  the  song  of  the  willow,  and  dies.  These 
old  folksongs,  even  when  telling  the  most  improb- 
able story,  have  their  roots  deep  in  human  nature. 

In  her  secret  heart  Jane  perceived  that  any  joy, 
any  sorrow,  might  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  wonder  like 
Tamsin. 

Jane's  heart  sank  within  her  to  see  that  Master 
Philip  was  not  prompt.  In  her  young  days  there 
was  no  such  a  lag-about  lover  as  he.  It  was  off  or 
on  then,  sure  enough.  True,  he  came  once  or  twice 
with  some  sort  of  lame  excuse  about  the  property. 
But  these  professional  visits  of  Philip  had  ceased 
some  time  ago.  On  Michaelmas  day  John  rode 
into  Netherton-town  to  complete  the  purchase  of 
Hatchbarrow  and  came  home  more  merry  than 


138   THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

wise.  There  was  an  end  of  that  matter.  The  days 
shortened.  Tamsin  was  more  often  indoors.  Jane's 
eyes  followed  the  girl's  every  movement,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  sunny  mirth  of  Tamsin  was 
also  giving  way  to  a  night  of  thought.  But  Tamsin 
knew  that  Philip  could  not  get  to  Hatchbarrow 
by  daylight,  and  she  had  not  seen  him  for  several 
weeks. 

The  purple  of  the  heather  had  passed  away  from 
the  moor,  and  the  bracken,  once  so  green,  was 
yellow  and  ruddy  brown.  An  early  frost  had  cut 
off  the  most  tender  of  the  flowers  in  Tamsin 's 
garden.  Harvest-home  had  just  come  and  gone, 
with  a  festivity  not  so  important  as  the  sheepshear- 
ing,  but  leaving  a  deal  of  clearing-up  behind  it. 

Mother  and  maid  were  busy  at  work  in  the  old 
kitchen. 

"  The  Beacon  Head  is  lost  in  a  misk,  an'  what 
the  day  do  mean  to  turn  to  is  ver'ly  an'  truly  more 
'an  mortal  man  can  tell." 

Jane  brought  this  information  when  she  came 
back  from  the  faggot  pile  hugging  a  double  armful 
of  logs  to  her  bosom.  She  set  the  sticks  up  in  a 
corner  of  the  chimney  to  dry  ready  for  use.  Her 
apron  was  green  from  the  moss  and  lichen  on  the 
wood.  She  stepped  across  to  the  window,  set  her 
arms  to  rest  a-kimbo,  smiled  upon  her  daughter 
with  real  affection,  and  prepared  to  sound. 

When  Jane  Scutt  rested  from  her  labours  to  look 
upon  Tamsin,  as  she  often  did  in  a  pause  between 


DEEP  SOUNDINGS  139 

any  two  household  duties,  her  whole  countenance 
underwent  a  change.  Her  anxious  eyes  brightened. 
The  careworn  lines  upon  her  lean  forehead  softened 
into  gentler  curves.  For  the  moment  she  would 
cast  off  her  weight  of  responsibilities,  and  the  hunted 
look  gave  way  to  an  expression  of  satisfaction  and 
love.  Jane  gave  over  sighing.  Her  firm  lips  even 
quivered  with  a  half-humorous  smile.  For  it  would 
have  been  necessary  to  find  indulgence  for  some  of 
Tamsin's  ways  if  she  had  not  loved  her  so  much.  It 
was  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  Tamsin,  in  her 
usual  pale  blue  pinafore,  but  with  a  pair  of  old 
gloves  on  her  hands,  was  standing  at  the  table 
board,  in  the  light  from  the  small-paned,  leaded 
window,  scouring  a  pewter  platter.  The  heart  of 
Jane  leapt  with  pride.  She  had  never  seen  Tamsin 
look  so  wonderful  pretty  though  her  heart  did  har- 
bour a  doubt  as  to  whether  all  was  well. 

"  There,  chile!  Let  be.  You've  a-done  enough," 
said  the  mother  in  a  coaxing  tone. 

"  I  like  doing  it,  mother.  And  if  I  don't  do  it, 
I  know  who  will." 

"  What,  then  ?  I  shall  have  time.  So  give  over 
now  to  once,  Tamsin,  my  dear." 

"  Thomasine,  mother." 

"  Very  well,  then — Tomsin,  I  should  say." 

Jane  laughed  as  pride  and  affection  made  con- 
cession to  the  girl's  strange  preference  for  her  full 
name. 

"  But  why  should  you,  mother  ?  " 


140    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  And  why  should  you,  my  dear  ?  I  was  bred 
up  to  work.  Work  do  come  natural  after  so  much 
o'  it.  Tis  no  trouble  to  these  old  paws.  But  wi' 
you,  'tis  different  like.  Lauk!  Tamsin — Tomsin 
I  should  say — if  I  didn't  know  I  bore  'ee,  I  couldn't 
half  believe  'ee  mine.  'Tis  as  if  any  old  blackthorn 
bush  out  in  hedge  should  bear  a  primerose,  as  mid 
say.  You  be  the  very  heart  an'  soul  o'  the  place, 
here  to  Hatchbarrow.  You  be.  I  do  really  quail 
to  think  o'  'ee  sometimes.  As  if  I  must  some  day 
lose  'ee." 

Tamsin  made  merry. 

"  Mother!  "  cried  she,  "  All  this  fear  about  me  is 
nonsense.  I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse." 

"  I  didn't  mean  health.  Nor  I  wasn't  a-thinking 
if  you  should  wed,  my  maid.  But  if  you  should 
ever  truly  see  how  rough  we  verily  be.  Say  no 
more.  There!  Let  be  an'  have  a-done.  T'ull  go 
on  as  'tis  maybe  so  long  as  your  father  and  mother 
do  last." 

The  eyes  of  Tamsin  opened  wide  with  surprise. 
Her  mother  seemed  to  speak  with  some  deeper 
meaning  and  in  the  tone  of  awe  with  which  her 
superstition  sometimes  recognized  an  omen  of  ill. 

Jane  saw  at  a  glance,  and  hastily  set  herself  to 
remove  the  impression  that  her  words  had  so  evi- 
dently made. 

"  What  I  do  mean  is  this — you  can  never  make 
fine  gentry  out  o'  your  father  an'  mother,  my  maid. 
Rough  we  was,  rough  we  be  and  rough  we  always 


DEEP  SOUNDINGS  141 

must  be.  Tis  to  be  hoped  we  sha'n't  stand  in  your 
way.  I  should  like  to  see  'ee  wed.  Though  when 
we  be  gone,  you  can  live  a  lady  out  o'  the  rent  o' 
Hatchbarrow.  I  wouldn'  have  'ee  to  live  alone. 
So  go  an'  sit  down  an'  read  your  po'try  book  or 
your  story  book.  I  do  like  for  'ee  to  read  your 
po'try  book.  You  can  read  un  out  if  you  be  a- 
minded.  Why,  you  do  colour  up  when  you  do  read 
your  po'try  book  more  rosy  than  anybody  from 
hard  work." 

"  There'll  be  time  for  the  book  by  and  by,  when 
the  candle  is  lighted,  mother." 

"  Take  it  now,  child.  Take  it  now.  There'll  be 
none  too  much  time,  if  some  gay  young  lover  should 
find  'ee  a  house  o'  your  own  one  o'  these  fine  days." 
Jane  had  suddenly  become  quite  lively,  for  she  was 
just  ready  to  heave  the  lead. 

"You  think  of  that  more  than  I  do  myself, 
mother." 

"  Tis  my  fear,  Tamsin — Tomsin,  I  do  mean- 
that  you  won't  take  who  you  might,  an'  that  our 
rough  ways  'ull  scare  off  the  finer  bird  that  might 
prove  a  mate  to  catch  your  fancy." 

"  He  won't  do  for  me,  mother,  if  he's  so  timid  as  all 
that." 

"  I  don't  say  timid,  only " 

Jane  paused  to  put  her  thought  into  comely 
shape.  She  could  by  no  means  get  it  quit  so  neat 
as  she  wished  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"  All  same  time  he  might  look  at  a  couple  o' 


142    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

scarecrows  like  your  father  and  your  mother,  and 
think  twice." 

"Oh,  mother!  Surely  I  should  be^well  saved 
from  any  who  could  look  at  me  and  think  more 
than  once,"  laughed  Tamsin,  and  merrily  rubbed 
the  platter. 

"  Yet,  all  same  time,  there's  folk  might  look 
down  on  other  people's  folk,"  Jane  reflected. 

"  Not  a  tongue  on  earth,  mother,  can  say  a  word 
against  you  and  father." 

Then  Jane  sighed  her  everlasting  sigh. 

"  That's  all  very  well,  but  say  somebody — well, 
say  anybody — say  Master  Philip  now,  for  the  sake 
o'  saying  somebody " 

"  Mother !  Master  Philip  is  the  very  last  I  should 
say." 

"  Oh,  Tamsin!  Tamsin! — Tomsin,  I  should  say— 
you  never  will  talk  serious.  I  didn'  really  say 
Master  Philip.  Say  anybody  you  like — 

"  Then,  mother,  you  must  wait  for  somebody  I 
do  like." 

Finding  herself  thus  defeated  at  every  turn,  Jane 
stepped  forward  to  seize  hold  of  the  platter. 

"  Give  it  here.  Give  it  here  this  minute,"  cried 
she,  with  a  show  of  authority. 

They  laughed  and  struggled,  but  Jane's  strong 
grip  was  soon  victorious.  She  pushed  Tamsin  into 
a  chair  and  then  prepared  to  take  a  still  deeper 
sounding. 

"  You  do  turn  things  off — but  for  all  that — there 


DEEP  SOUNDINGS  143 

is  they  that — look  at  it  how  you  mid — do  an' 
will " 

The  rattle  of  hoofs  on  the  stones  of  the  barton 
yard  cut  the  poor  woman  short  at  the  very  moment 
when  she  was  about  to  be  both  clear  and  impressive. 
Then  a  lusty  voice  shouted: 

"  Hullo !     In  house  there — where's  our  Tamsin  ?  " 

"  There's  father,"  cried  the  girl. 

She  ran  out  of  the  door.  More  nimble  than  her 
mother,  she  passed  through  the  garden  gate  and 
was  by  the  upping-stock,  and  the  milk  pails  on  the 
wall  ready  for  the  evening  milking,  before  Jane  was 
halfway  down  the  path.  J^ohn  Scutt  had  cantered 
in  from  the  farrn.^  The  sturdy  little  Exmoor  pony 
stood  up  stiffly  under  his  weight.  The  wise-looking 
brindled  sheep-dog  walked  slowly  to  his  corner 
between  the  mounting  steps  and  the  wall.  John 
was  roughly  dressed,  but  not  in  the  tarry  shearing 
suit.  There  was  a  button  missing  from  his  old 
gaiter,  and  his  j  acket  had  seen  so  much  weather  that 
it  seemed  to  have  taken  on  the  browns  and  greens 
of  the  soil  and  the  field.  In  the  moorland  landscape 
at  this  autumn  season  of  the  year  it  took  a  quick 
eye  to  distinguish  John  Scutt. 

He  had  ridden  home  in  a  hurry.  His  voice  was 
loud  as  always  when  he  spoke  out  of  doors,  and  he 
shouted  in  short,  abrupt  sentences. 

"  Hullo,  Tamsin !  In  you  go !  up  an'  change 
yourself.  Hop  into  Netherton-town.  There'll  be 
thick  fog — maybe  for  days.  Hop  on.  T'ull  be 


144    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

a  change  an'  a  holiday.  Tis  no  good  to  'ee  here — 
wi'  your  weak  chest.  On  to  go.  There's  a  good 
maid." 

The  girl's  face  brightened.  She  should  see  Philip 
and  might  talk  to  him  for  hours.  For  there  was 
nobody  in  lawyer  Marshall's  silent  old  house  but 
his  one  daughter,  her  friend  Isabel.  Philip  would 
come  in  from  the  office  and  they  would  have  the 
little  sitting-room  all  to  themselves.  Isabel  would 
see  to  all  that.  And  the  time  had  been  long  since 
the  last  sea-fog. 

Her  mother  came  up,  a  little  out  of  breath. 

"But  what  do  you  say,  Jane?  'Tis  a  thick 
cloud  away  there  over  the  sea.  But  you  can  see 
for  yourselves." 

Her  father  pointed  with  his  riding  whip  in  the 
direction  of  the  beech  trees  which  sheltered  the 
homestead.  Across  their  reddening  leaves  a  thin 
grey  mist  like  a  film  of  smoke  was  already  drifting. 
It  could  be  distinguished  more  clearly  still  against 
the  darker  branches  of  the  clump  of  firs. 

Her  mother  hesitated  in  a  way  that  Tamsin  did 
not  understand. 

"  What  do  'ee  say?  "  repeated  her  father  more 
sharply  than  before. 

Standing  between  them,  the  girl  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other. 

Jane  was  very  slow  to  answer.  Her  husband's 
eyes  were  fixed  intently  upon  her,  and  she  returned 
his  gaze  with  a  look  of  pleading  inquiry.  Tamsin 


DEEP  SOUNDINGS  145 

detected  an  almost  imperceptible  nod.  Her  mother 
responded  with  a  slight  movement  of  assent.  Evi- 
dently there  was  some  secret  understanding  between 
them — something  regarding  this  visit  which  she 
was  not  to  know.  Her  mother's  face  puckered 
with  anxiety.  The  tardy  reply  came  with  con- 
straint, like  something  said  only  to  save  appear- 
ances because  a  listener  is  present. 

"  If  such  is  your  wish,  John." 

"  That's  it.  Get  on  then,  maid.  Tis  a  goodish 
step  to  Netherton-town.  Come.  Besprack!" 

The  girl  wanted  no  urging.  Happy  as  a  linnet 
flitting  to  its  nest  in  the  gorse,  she  ran  down  the 
garden  path  and  disappeared  within  the  porch.  A 
moment  later  John  Scutt  caught  sight  of  her  before 
the  little  mirror  in  the  window  abo¥e.  But  Tamsin, 
seeing  her  father  glance  that  way,  drew  back  at  once. 
She  was  perplexed  at  what  she  had  seen.  She  could 
not  believe  herself  mistaken.  The  window  was 
open.  She  peeped  between  the  curtain  and  the 
looking-glass.  Her  mother  had  stepped  forward, 
and  was  standing  close  by  her  husband's  stirrup. 
Although  Jane's  whisper  was  of  the  loudest,  he  bent 
down  his  ear.  His  voice,  when  he  endeavoured  to 
speak  softly,  gave  to  alternate  words  the  penetrating 
power  of  a  foghorn. 

"  To-night,  John  ?     Do  'ee  suppose  ?  " 

"  Likely  enough.  There's  a  cloud  so  big  as  a 
mountain  arising  up  over  to  the  west.  It'll  be  black 
as  a  bag  on  the  moor  after  dark." 

L 


146    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  I  thought  o'  fog  last  night,  I  did  sure,  when 
the  sun  went  down  so  red,"  sighed  Jane.  "  I 
dreamed  of  it  too.  But  la !  I  can't  a-bear  it — to 
see  the  maid  a-sent  off  into  town  on  a  tale  like 
this." 

"  Pack  o'  nonsense !  Can  be  but  for  her  good. 
She'll  reap  the  benefit." 

"  Yet — still — there,  my  heart  do  sink  when 
I  do  think  o'  her  sometimes.  All  her  thoughts  an' 
ways  be  so  right  an'  we  be  so  double.  Day  an' 
night  I  do  wish  her  well  wed  and  settled — an'  safe. 
An'  that's  a  fac'." 

"  Well.  This  is  the  way  to  it.  She  do  take — 
Netherton-town — "  His  voice  sank  and  rose  again, 
and  the  ear  of  Tamsin  could  catch  little  more  than 
a  word  here  and  there.  "  — willing  an'  ready — 
cat  to  cream.  Who  do  know  ?  " 

He  glanced  at  the  window.  To  Tamsin  his  lips 
appeared  to  shape  a  warning  that  he  could  see  her 
peeping  at  them  from  behind  the  blind.  At  the  top 
of  his  voice  he  shouted,  "  Good-bye,  Tamsin,"  pulled 
round  his  pony,  whistled  up  the  dog  and  clattered 
out  of  the  yard. 

Slowly  Jane  turned  back  towards  the  gate,  her 
head  bent  as  if  it  carried  a  burden  of  serious  thought. 
Seen  from  the  window,  she  was  a  pathetic  figure, 
full  of  weariness.  "Poor  mother!  she  is  always 
thinking  of  me  and  Philip,"  said  Tamsin  to  herself. 
She  longed  to  go  and  tell  her  that  all  would  some  day 
be  according  to  her  wish.  That  Philip  loved  her. 


DEEP  SOUNDINGS  147 

That  she  loved  Philip.  That  they  would  marry, 
come  what  may,  and  perhaps  even  live  near  to 
Hatchbarrow.  But  she  dared  not  do  that.  She 
said  to  herself,  that,  sea-fog  or  no  sea-fog,  she  would 
not  go  to  Netherton-town  that  afternoon  and  leave 
her  mother  who  looked  so  woebegone.  Yet  with 
these  thoughts  in  her  mind  she  hastened  all  the  more 
to  get  ready. 

Certainly  Tamsin  was  not  long.  Still  in  the 
kitchen  at  work  on  the  pewter  when  her  daughter 
came  downstairs,  Jane  stopped  to  look  at  her.  The 
woeful,  pleading  look  was  still  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  into  town  to-day,  mother." 

"Oh!  but  you  must.  Your  father'll  be  vexed," 
urged  Jane,  in  alarm.  "  He  do  think  so  much  o' 
your  chest." 

"  That's  all  nonsense,"  cried  the  girl. 

"  Maybe.  'Tis  his  thought,  an'  go  you  must. 
Besides,  you  do  love  to  go,"  and,  brightening  up 
amazingly,  Jane  turned  Tamsin  round  about  in 
admiration.  "  'Pon  my  life,  you  do  look  nice. 
There  be  two  o'  you,  Tamsin — two  maids,  sure 
'nough,  in  one  skin.  There's  Tamsin  for  your  home, 
an'  Tomsin,  by  the  same  token,  for  Netherton- 
town.  'Pon  my  word,  you  be  smart." 

Although  autumn  was  passing  and  much  leaf 
had  yellowed,  there  had  been  no  more  than  an  early 
morning  frost,  and  this  sea-mist  came  to  blot  out 
the  clear  blue  sky  of  an  Indian  summer.  And 
summer  still  lingered  in  Thomasine's  attire.  Her 

L  2 


148     THE  REVENUE  OF  THE  WICKED 

bodice,  of  the  colour  of  the  reddened  beech  leaves, 
was  partly  covered  by  a  pale  silk  kerchief  almost 
the  hue  of  the  new  thatch  on  the  mows  beside  the 
homestead.  The  sleeves  came  but  little  below  the 
elbows.  Her  skirt  was  short,  revealing  crimson 
hose  of  her  own  knitting,  and  the  neatest  of  ankles 
above  stout  leathern  shoes  with  bright  steel  buckles. 
Such  was  Thomasine  of  a  holiday  or  when  she  went 
to  Netherton-town. 

"  That's  right.  An'  your  cape  to  carr'  'pon  your 
arm,"  said  her  mother,  looking  her  over  with  complete 
approval. 

Refusing  to  be  led  into  further  talk,  Jane  led  her 
daughter  to  the  door  and  started  her  on  the  way. 
She  afterwards  stood  in  the  porch  watching  the 
distant  hill,  where  the  winding  road  again  came  into 
view  over  the  moor. 


149 


CHAPTER  III 
TO  NETHERTON-TOWN 

THOMASINE  walked  briskly.  She  had  eight  miles  be- 
fore her — over  the  moor,  down  the  coombe-side, 
by  the  bridge  and  through  the  straggling  village  of 
Eddyford,  over  Netherton  Common  and  thus  into 
Netherton-town. 

Thomasine  was  excited.  Her  mother's  soundings 
might  have  passed  almost  unheeded,  but  since  there 
was  some  secret  understanding  between  her  parents 
the  matter  was  of  more  importance.  If  her  father 
had  really  discovered  her  secret,  as  their  nods  and 
their  whisperings  led  her  to  fear,  it  was  by  no  fault 
of  hers.  She  had  kept  her  promise  to  Philip  most 
faithfully.  Some  tattling  body  in  the  village,  know- 
ing of  his  visit,  must  have  said  some  word  by  way  of 
joke  and  set  the  world  talking.  That  was  likely 
enough,  and  would  not  have  mattered  a  pin  but 
for  Philip's  wish.  Thomasine  only  feared  the  tale 
might  get  carried  to  Netherton-town.  There  was 
no  worse  place  for  gossip  in  the  whole  world  than 
Netherton-town.  Everybody  knew  that.  Just  a 
word  let  fall  of  a  market  day  and  the  whole  country- 
side was  soon  humming.  Somebody  might  have 


150     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

spoken  a  word  already  in  her  father's  ear.  To  con- 
fer together  and  hold  silence  concerning  anything 
of  importance  was  the  way  of  her  father  and  mother 
and  characteristic  of  the  moorland  folk,  though  they 
were  boisterously  open  about  all  that  did  not  touch 
them  closely.  From  their  reserve  it  was  clear  that 
they  approved.  They  could  express  disapproval 
loudly  enough  and  at  once — and  indignation  also, 
if  they  should  fancy  themselves  slighted  or  hurt. 
Should  they  once  get  it  into  their  heads  that  Philip 
was  trifling,  there  would  be  what  her  mother  called 
an  "  upstore."  If  anything  of  this  sort  were  to 
happen,  Philip  must  surely  think  her  a  very  shallow 
and  unreliable  person,  without  wit  to  conceal  her 
thoughts. 

In  spite  of  these  misgivings,  the  heart  of  Tho- 
masine  was  exuberantly  glad.  She  was  on  the  road 
to  Netherton-town.  She  was  on  the  way  to  meet 
the  man  she  loved.  Everything  was  happy  and 
beautiful  on  the  way  to  Netherton-town,  from  the 
hare  that  lopped  across  the  track  to  the  seagulls, 
like  Thomasine  herself,  passing  inland.  Thomasine 
sprang  to  the  roadside  to  pick  a  sprig  of  belated 
heather  still  in  flower.  A  string  of  ponies,  a  score 
of  them  at  least,  each  one  a  mare  with  a  sucker 
running  by  her  side,  came  in  single  file  along  the 
slope  of  the  coombe.  They  stopped,  whinnied  at 
the  sight  of  her,  then  of  a  sudden  made  up  their 
minds  and  crossed  the  road  in  front  of  her  at  a 
canter.  Thomasine  shouted  to  them  from  very 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  151 

joy  as  they  galloped  away  down  their  track  be- 
tween the  heather,  through  the  green  swamp  and 
up  the  opposite  hill.  They,  like  the  seagulls  and 
herself,  were  changing  quarters  because  of  the  sea- 
fog.  And  yet,  to  look  at  Thomasine,  her  eyes  bright 
with  anticipation,  her  cheeks  aglow  with  the  exercise 
both  of  mind  and  body,  none  could  have  suspected 
that  she  need  tramp  eight  miles  to  get  away  from  a 
mere  mist. 

Full  a  mile  across  Eddyford  Common  and  Tho- 
masine did  not  meet  a  soul. 

The  village  of  Eddyford  straggled  along  the  banks 
of  a  river  that  rushes  hurrying  down  from  the  moor. 
Thomasine  could  hear  the  hum  of  the  waters  before 
she  could  see  the  stream.  Enclosed  fields,  both 
grass  and  arable,  reached  up  the  hillside.  At  the 
end  of  the  moor  the  rough  open  road,  shut  off  by  a 
gate,  passes  between  hedgerows  and  becomes  a 
winding  lane.  Close  by  the  gate-post  and  hanging 
over  it  grew  a  large  hazel  bush.  A  bent  old  woman, 
in  a  dirty  sun-bonnet,  muttered  to  herself,  as,  by 
means  of  a  crooked  stick,  she  dragged  down  boughs 
to  pick  ruddy  clusters  of  nuts  from  amongst  the 
yellowing  leaves.  On  the  ground,  by  her  feet,  was 
a  small  cross-handled  basket  half  filled  with  herbs. 

Thomasine  recognized  the  old  aunt  Titcomb  at  a 
glance. 

The  old  aunt  Titcomb  was  the  wise  woman  of 
Eddyford,  and  many  people  believed  her  to  be  a 
witch.  Perhaps  she  was  neither  wise  nor  a  sorceress, 


152    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

but  only  cunning  enough  to  make  the  most  of  her 
reputation.  For  nearly  half  a  century,  before  she 
became  too  old,  she  had  been  the  priestess  both  of 
the  cradle  and  the  coffin,  for  every  village  that  hung 
around  the  skirt  of  the  broad  moorland.  Many  a 
strange  occult  rite  had  she  performed.  The  old 
aunt  Titcomb  not  only  carried  a  headful  of  wonder- 
ful and  secret  things,  but  a  wide  experience  had 
taught  her  much  of  human  nature.  Her  means  of 
living  puzzled  everybody.  Some  said  she  must  be 
half  starved.  Others  that  she  had  money  hidden 
away  and  ought  not  to  be  allowed  parish  relief. 
But  with  her  old  age  she  had  found  a  shrewd  and 
bitter  tongue,  which  feared  neither  high  nor  low. 
The  rich  encouraged  her  for  the  sake  of  hearing  her 
talk.  The  humble  were  careful  not  to  offend  her  for 
fear  of  what  she  might  be  able  to  do.  So  she  did 
and  said  as  she  liked.  She  had  known  Thomasine 
from  the  moment  of  her  birth,  and  she  had  a  way 
of  talking  with  astounding  freedom  to  those  whom 
she  had  assisted  into  the  world.  The  village  people 
only  laughed.  Thomasine  shuddered  to  see  her. 
A  most  blood-curdling  coarseness  oftentimes,  and 
now  and  then  a  most  horrible  profanity,  fell  from 
the  lips  of  the  old  Titcomb.  But  she  was  busy 
with  her  nuts.  It  might  be  possible  by  walking 
quickly  to  pass  unobserved. 

The  gate  creaked  on  its  hinges. 

The  old  hag  stood  up,  glanced  around,  and  tried 
to  straighten  her  back. 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  153 

"  Hullo !  "  cried  she,  with  a  laugh,  thin  and  harsh 
as  the  creaking  of  a  worn-out  wheel.  "  Here's 
another  of  my  own  beauties.  Ha !  ha !  Tamsin 
Scutt.  Zo  here  you  be  again  off  to  Netherton-town. 
Can  'ee  guess  the  reason  why  they  do  send  'ee, 
Tamsin  Scutt — an'  o'  sich  a  misky  day,  too  ?  " 

The  girl  started.  As  she  put  the  question  the 
old  aunt's  voice  dropped  to  a  sly  whisper,  and  it 
came  so  pat  upon  her  thoughts. 

"La!  You  do  turn  your  head  zo  quick's  a 
robin,  Tamsin  Scutt.  Your  folk  do  tell  up  as  how 
you  be  weakly.  But  to  look  'ee  in  the  face,  who'd 
ever  think  it,  Tamsin  Scutt  ?  An'  never  had  herb, 
drink  nor  ointment  from  the  wold  aunt  Titcomb 
since  the  day  o'  your  birth." 

There  was  an  irony  in  this  frequent  repetition  of 
the  name,  which  was  most  uncomfortable.  The 
old  woman  hobbled  forward,  and  with  her  thin  brown 
finger  tapped  on  the  girl's  wrist. 

A  grey  eye,  watery,  shrunken  but  cunning,  peered 
from  under  a  bushy  eyebrow,  and  Thomasine  had 
not  the  courage  to  move. 

"  Here !  Looky-here,  Tamsin !  One  o'  my  own. 
Do  'ee  ever  wake,  full  early  in  the  morning,  wi'  a  bit 
of  a  cough?  " 

"  No,  aunt  Titcomb." 

"  Do  'ee  panky  much  if  you  should  chance  to 
step  out  pretty  quick  up  hill  ?  " 

"  No,  aunt  Titcomb." 

"Nor  spit  blood?" 


154    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  No." 

"  Nor  sweat  o'  nights  ?  But  don't  speak  another 
word.  I'll  warrant  you  don't.  For  you  be  one  o' 
the  lucky  ones,  Tamsin  Scutt.  One  by  yourself,  an' 
never  a  one  to  follow  as  the  old  aunt  Titcomb  could 
ha'  taken  oath.  So,  to  be  sure,  they  must  take  good 
care  o'  'ee,  Tamsin  Scutt.  Your  mother  can't  afford 
to  lose  the  only  one.  An'  to  watch  how  your  vather 
have  a-got  on !  A  little  better  'an  nothing,  same  as 
most  o'  the  rest  about  here — an'  now  the  farm  his 
own.  The  lawyer  Marshall  bought  un  another 
piece  o'  ground  last  month,  didn't  'er?  'Tis  won- 
derful. Zo  'tis.  An'  work  night  an'  day,  night  an' 
day  to  save  money  for  the  only  one.  You  be  the 
apple  o'  both  their  eyes,  Tamsin  Scutt.  You'll 
bring  money  to  the  man  you  do  wed.  Do  'ee  ever 
wonder  why  they  do  send  'ee  in  to  Netherton-town, 
Tamsin  Scutt  ?  " 

The  old  woman  had  gradually  drawn  nearer  still. 
Her  neck  was  craned  forward,  her  face  came  so 
close  that  Thomasine  could  feel  the  breath 
against  her  cheek.  Her  voice  was  little  more  than 
a  wheeze. 

Thomasine  drew  back. 

"  I — I  go  in  to  visit  my  friends,"  she  replied, 
quickly. 

The  old  aunt  Titcomb  showed  her  toothless  gums 
and  laughed. 

"  Ho !     Ho !     An'  so  you  do,"  she  nodded. 

The  answer  seemed  to  fill  her  with  merriment 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  155 

and  she  had  to  stop  and  regain  breath  before  she 
could  proceed. 

"  Ha !  Ha !  An'  in  hopes  o'  one  more  than  a 
friend,  maybe.  Harky  here,  Tamsin,  my  sweet 
pretty  maid.  A  word  in  your  ear.  Don't  'ee  loiter 
about  too  long  in  Love  Lane.  Get  to  church,  my 
maid,  so  quick's  you  can.  The  ring  on  your  finger, 
my  dear,  that's  the  thing.  There's  a  planet  against 
'ee,  Tamsin  Scutt,  lucky  as  you  be.  Till  death  us 
do  part — that's  a  maxim  for  a  maid  wi'  money. 
Troubles  do  come  thick  as  weeds.  Money  do  vlee — 
all  to  once — whir-r-r — like  a  flock  o'  linnets.  Death 
us  do  part  is  the  only  rock.  Here !  Here's  a  riddle 
for  'ee,  Tamsin  Scutt.  When  is  dark  night  more 
open  than  daylight  ?  Can  'ee  guess  ?  Ho !  ho ! 
I'll  warrant  you  can't.  Ax  o'  the  owls  up  in  Hatch- 
barrow  wood.  They'll  hollar  who-o-o.  Turn  tail 
now,  an'  run  home  an'  ax  o'  your  vather.  Tell  un 
the  wold  aunt  Titcomb  send  'ee.  Mid  be  all  zo  well. 
Then  tell  un  the  answer  too — when  another  do  lie 
in  wait." 

Impatience  with  such  nonsense  overcame  her  fear. 
Thomasine  found  the  will  to  speak  and  be  free  from 
the  nightmare  that  oppressed  her. 

"  There's  no  sense  in  what  you  say,  aunt  Tit- 
comb,"  she  said,  sharply,  and  stepped  aside  to  con- 
tinue on  her  way. 

The  old  woman  hobbled  in  front  of  her. 

"  Then  you  won't  take  a  errand  from  your  old 
aunt?  " 


156    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Thomasine  did  not  answer. 

'  Youth  is  proud.  Maybe  you  be  right.  Be 
proud  while  you  may.  There's  no  pride  in  crooked 
limbs  and  wrinkles." 

The  old  aunt  Titcomb  stood  back  and  allowed  her 
to  pass.  She  did  not,  however,  cease  to  talk,  but 
gradually  raised  her  voice  to  its  normal  squeak  as 
Thomasine  walked  away.  Louder  and  louder  it 
grew,  following  the  girl  all  down  the  road.  Tho- 
masine hoped  that  no  neighbour  from  Eddyford  was 
near  to  listen. 

"  No  more  there  is,  my  dear.  There's  no  sense. 
No  sense — in  young  or  old.  Young  thoughts  must 
run  love-seeking.  Old  will  be  for  ever  a-wool- 
gathering.  Now,  I'll  tell  'ee  why  they  do  send  'ee 
into  town.  You  be  a  beauty,  Tamsin  Scutt.  Under 
a  head  like  the  furze  in  flower  lips  do  pray  to  be 
kissed.  You  be  a  primerose,  my  dear.  They  do 
hope  one  o'  the  town — some  gentleman  born — mid 
chance  to  pick  'ee,  Tamsin  Scutt.  An'  why  not,  wi' 
the  land  an'  a  bit  o'  money  ?  Why  not  Jane  Scutt's 
maid  a  lady,  so  well  as  some  of  the  rest  ?  Keep  on 
your  way.  You  be  one  o'  my  own.  I  do  wish  'ee 
well.  Don't  forget  now,  don't  forget.  Ax  the 
riddle  for  all  that.  He'll  make  your  vather  stare  a 
bit — I'll  warrant  un.  So  good-day,  Tamsin  Scutt. 
You  be  one  o'  my  own.  Good-day!  I  do  say 
Good-day!" 

For  the  sake  of  silence  Thomasine  turned  her  head 
and  cried  back,  "  Good-day !  " 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  157 

"  One  o'  my  own — one  o'  my  own,"  mumbled  the 
old  woman  as  she  picked  up  the  basket  and  hobbled 
away  to  her  nuts  or  her  herb-picking. 

The  girl  hurried  down  the  hill  towards  the  village. 
This  unexpected  interview  had  disturbed  her  greatly 
and  she  was  distressed  in  mind.  In  vain  she  tried  to 
reassure  herself  that  this  was  only  a  silly  old  woman. 
The  old  aunt  Titcomb  had  spoken  as  one  who  knows 
what  she  is  talking  about.  Towards  the  last,  in  her 
way,  she  had  been  almost  kind.  Yet  many  people 
called  her  witch,  and  superstition  was  in  the  blood 
of  Tamsin.  Jane  Scutt  believed  implicitly  in  the  evil 
eye.  Her  father  always  spat  three  times,  if  he 
should  be  unlucky  enough  to  meet  a  piebald  horse 
on  the  road.  The  roots  of  these  beliefs  lie  deeper 
than  the  surface  ploughing  of  a  superficial  education. 
There  are  scholars  who  feel  their  flesh  creep  at  a 
ghost-story,  even  though  they  do  not  believe  in 
ghosts.  And  the  wisdom  of  the  old  aunt's  utter- 
ances, whenever  they  happened  to  be  clear,  seemed 
to  menace  a  more  certain  misfortune  in  the  warnings 
which  were  so  obscure.  "  There's  a  planet  against 
'ee !  "  "  Till  Death  us  do  part."  These  dark  words 
cast  a  shadow  that  dispelled  the  gaiety  of  Tho- 
masine.  Her  mood  was  changed.  The  joy  of  Love 
gave  place  to  its  no  less  natural  apprehensions. 
Philip's  mother  would  never  consent.  It  would 
never  come  to  anything.  There  would  be  talk — 
talk  before  it  was  wise.  He  would  blame  her  and 
grow  cold.  His  friends  would  dissuade  him — when 


158    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

it  was  known.  And  it  was  known  already.  Her 
parents  knew.  The  old  aunt  Titcomb  knew  by 
some  means  or  the  other.  All  Eddyford  knew — 
likely  enough 

She  reached  Eddyford  and  saw  with  pleasure 
that  there  was  no  loiterer  on  the  bridge.  Tho- 
masine  was  in  no  humour  to  speak  to  any  soul  alive. 
Eddyford  was  not  reticent,  but  apt  to  indulge  in 
disagreeable  jokes  or  to  be  inquisitive  and  ask  plain 
questions  straight  out.  She  walked  quickly  up  the 
street,  but  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  no  intimate 
friend. 

She  came  to  the  house  where  Mrs.  Airdrie  had 
lived,  now  tenantless  and  falling  out  of  repair. 
Since  her  death  it  had  never  been  let,  and  now  the 
windows  were  boarded  up.  Thomasine  was  already 
unhappy  and  in  distress.  She  burst  into  tears  and 
hurried  on  her  way. 

Yet  all  was  not  over.  A  little  beyond  the  vil- 
lage was  a  small  thatched  homestead,  the  dwelling 
of  cousin  Jane  Peters,  that  excellent  spinster, 
middle-aged  and  so  talkative.  Cousin  Jane  Peters 
lived  in  frugal  independence  and  therefore  had  little 
to  do.  Her  afternoons  she  devoted  to  needlework 
and  was  always  seated  at  the  window.  Nobody 
could  be  more  inquisitive  as  to  your  errand  than 
cousin  Jane  Peters.  No  eye  so  keen  as  hers  to 
detect  the  state  of  your  health  and  the  condition  of 
your  mind  from  your  countenance.  Sure  enough, 
scarcely  had  Thomasine  passed  the  door,  when 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  159 

cousin  Jane  Peters,  with  uncle  Jeremiah  Brook 
close  at  the  tail  of  her  skirt,  popped  out  and  shouted 
after  her  with  the  utmost  good  humour. 

"  Hullo,  Tamsin !  Why  so  quick  ?  London  afire, 
maybe !  You  be  in  a  hurry  then !  " 

"  I'm  late !  I'm  late !  "  cried  the  girl,  looking 
back  over  her  shoulder. 

"  You  be  proud — proud,  seem  so." 

"  I'll  look  in  on  my  way  back." 

"  Oh !  Don't  'ee  trouble,  if  you  should  be  in 
haste,  sure.  So  fine  as  you  be." 

"  I  must  speak.  To  pass  your  near  kin  without 
greeting  is  to  show  bad  manners  and  a  base  mind." 

Thomasine  kept  on  without  stopping,  and  pre- 
sently the  door  closed  with  a  slam. 

Thomasine  had  committed  the  most  unpardon- 
able offence  known  to  rural  life.  She  had  appeared 
stuck  up.  She  had  given  the  go-by  to  a  poor  rela- 
tion. In  a  village  news  is  always  scarce,  and  every- 
one a-hungering  for  the  sound  of  a  fresh  voice. 
Cousin  Jane  Peters  was  not  only  disappointed  but 
incensed.  She  would  never  forget.  Yet  Thomasine 
had  as  little  false  pride  as  a  girl  with  money  might. 
She  understood,  and  was  vexed.  Vexed  with  cousin 
Jane  Peters — with  herself — with  everything.  Never- 
theless she  could  not  bear  to  talk  to  anyone  that 
afternoon.  She  kept  on  to  the  point  where  the  road 
parts  company  with  the  river  to  climb  the  opposite 
hill. 

Thomasine  heard  a  voice  as  it  were  come  out  of 


the  sky — a  rough  voice  that  called  to  a  team.  High 
on  a  slope  of  the  hillside  she  saw  a  man  at  plough. 
His  back  was  towards  her,  but  she  knew  that  tall 
figure  only  too  well.  She  quickened  her  pace, 
hoping  that  she  might  pass  unobserved. 

Again  she  heard  him  call  as  he  turned  the  plough 
at  the  headland  under  the  higher  hedge.  Now  he 
faced  her  way  as  he  came  down  the  other  furrow. 
The  homestead  of  the  Cledworths  was  hidden  in  the 
coombe  close  by,  although  an  outlying  field  or  two 
of  their  farm  lay  beside  her  father's  land  at  Hatch- 
barrow.  The  village  street  was  well  in  view  from 
any  part  of  the  hill.  She  could  scarcely  hope  to 
miss  his  eye  in  her  brighter  holiday  attire,  but 
Thomasine  drew  into  the  side,  and,  wherever  it  was 
possible  all  up  the  winding  steep,  kept  well  under 
the  cover  of  a  tall  beech  hedgerow. 

She  began  to  take  courage.  She  had  almost 
reached  the  top. 

A  minute  more — yet  another  turn  of  the  road — 
and  she  would  be  in  safety. 

"  Hullo,  Tamsin !  Here  you  be.  Out  to  look 
roun'  for  your  sweetheart,  then." 

The  face  of  Thomasine  reddened  with  anger. 
Education  had  taught  her  to  detect  impertinence 
where  the  village  of  Eddyford  would  only  have 
found  good  humour.  She  did  not  see  the  speaker, 
but  full  well  she  knew  that  drawl  and  hated  it. 

The  young  Isaac  Cledworth  had  left  his  plough 
and  run  down  to  a  gap  in  the  hedge.  He  knew  that 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  161 

if  Thomasine  should  see  him  she  would  turn  back, 
and  there  he  stood,  out  of  sight  amongst  the  leaves, 
waiting  for  her  to  come  by.  In  leathern  gaiters 
and  a  kirtle  smock  he  lightly  jumped  from  the  high 
bank  over  the  fern-covered  ditch  and  stepped  into 
the  road.  The  place  was  lonely  and  the  way  little 
used.  Thomasine  was  afraid.  She  cast  a  hasty 
glance  up  the  hill  and  down.  Nobody  was  in  sight. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  She  had  no  wile  by  which 
to  escape  him  this  time.  She  needs  must  stop  and 
hear  whatever  he  might  have  to  say. 

"  I  can't  tell  what  you  mean,  Isaac  Cledworth, 
I'm  sure,"  said  she,  trying  to  conceal  her  fear  under 
a  careless  manner. 

"Why,  who  but  myself,  to  be  sure?"  The 
young  Isaac  spoke  with  that  air  of  jaunty  self- 
satisfaction  which  had  won  so  much  admiration  at 
revel  and  fair.  "  An'  met  me  you  have,  then,  sure 
'nough." 

In  the  eyes  of  the  moorland  folk  Isaac  Cledworth 
passed  for  a  very  smart  young  man,  and  more  than 
one  girl  in  Eddyford  would  have  thought  herself 
lucky  to  wed  with  him.  Ready  at  any  moment  to 
drink  or  work,  or  fight  or  wrestle  with  any  comer, 
he  had  gained  for  himself  a  considerable  popularity 
in  that  country.  Although  but  four-and-twenty, 
he  was  as  'cute  at  a  deal  as  many  a  one  whose 
crown  was  bald  with  over-reaching  his  neighbour. 
And  many  thought  him  not  so  bad-looking,  with 
his  tall,  active  figure,  his  straight  sandy  hair,  grey 

M 


162    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

eyes,  short  nose  and  long  upper  lip.  As  the  cham- 
pion of  that  part  of  the  county,  Isaac  was  welcome 
at  any  homestead  within  ten  miles,  as  they  say, 
"  on  any  day  of  the  week,"  and  in  consequence 
fancied  himself  as  a  wit  and  humorist. 

"  Don't  make  such  a  fool  of  yourself,  Isaac 
Cledworth,"  cried  Thomasine  in  a  fury,  and  with 
a  step  to  one  side  as  if  to  go  on  her  way. 

"  Stop !     Stop,  my  beauty !  " 

He  laughed,  and  still  in  his  humorous  vein  skipped 
in  front  of  her  as  if  dancing  a  reel. 

"  There's  none  such  hurry.  'Tis  my  turn  now. 
You  can't  hop  away  here  into  the  crowd,  as  you  did 
last  year  at  Eddyford  revel,  my  maid.  Nor  give 
me  the  go-by  as  you  have  done  many  a  score  o' 
times.  Nor  run  out  o'  house  an'  hide  yourself  away 
from  the  dancers,  as  you  did  at  your  father's  sheep- 
shearing.  For  here  we  be,  Tamsin,  my  maid. 
You  an'  I,  that  do  love  'ee  better  'an  life.  Look 
here,  Tamsin.  Look  here,  my  dear.  Will  'ee  ha' 
me?  " 

"  Never,  Isaac  Cledworth." 

"  Look  here,  Tamsin,  my  beauty.  'Tis  better  to 
wed  wi'  one  o'  your  own  sort — you  do  know.  We  be 
neighbours ' ' 

"  An'  neighbours  is  all  we  can  ever  be,  Isaac 
Cledworth.  I've  made  it  plain  many  a  time  in 
deeds  if  not  in  words.  What  other  meaning  could 
I  have  ?  If  you  would  only  have  the  sense  to  see ! 
Now  I  tell  you — for  once  and  all." 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  163 

"  I  do  love  'ee  dear,  Tamsin,  my  maid.  I'd 
take  care  o'  'ee,  my  dear."  He  wrung  up  his  fist 
as  if  to  show  how  well.  "  Look  here !  Will  'ee 
ha' me?" 

"  I  can  quite  well  take  care  of  myself,"  retorted 
the  girl  sharply.  And  seeing  she  could  not  go 
forward,  she  turned  to  go  back  to  the  village. 

"  Don't  you  be  sure  o'  that,  Tamsin.  There's 
nothing  like  a  good  stout  arm  and  fist  to  take  care 
of  a  maid.  Let  but  another  look  at  'ee — I'd — 
I'd " 

But  Thomasine  scarcely  heard.  She  was  hurry- 
ing down  the  hill. 

A  fierceness  of  jealousy  was  added  to  his  brute's 
passion.  Stung  with  the  recollection  of  how  many 
times  she  had  eluded  him,  he  saw  her  trying  to 
escape  again.  The  very  futility  of  the  attempt 
quickened  his  blood.  He  strode  after  her.  She 
heard  his  steps  and  ran.  In  a  moment  his  arm  was 
around  her.  He  forced  back  her  head  with  his 
rough  hand,  and  kissed  her  cheeks  again  and  again. 
He  thrust  aside  the  kerchief  and  kissed  her  neck 
and  bosom,  until  Thomasine  in  a  frenzy  seized 
his  yellow  hair  above  each  ear  and  thrust  his  head 
away  from  her. 

"  You  vixen!     You  little  red-headed  she-devil!  " 

cried  he,   with  a  grim  humour  but  between  his 

clenched  teeth.     Yet  he  was  exultant  and  grinned 

as  he  smoothed  his  ruffled  locks. 

The  burning  of  his  polluting  lips  upon  her  breast, 

M  2 


164      THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

and  he  within  arm's-length,  Thomasine  stood 
breathless  between  shame  and  fear — her  lips  parted, 
her  face  towards  him,  because  she  feared  again  to 
turn  her  back  and  run. 

Then  the  absurdity  of  having  his  hair  pulled 
struck  the  young  Isaac  Cledworth.  He  was  used 
to  give  knocks  and  to  take  them  smiling.  After 
all,  a  deal  of  roughness  went  to  the  Eddyford  idea 
of  successful  wooing.  And  Tamsin,  looking  so 
handsome  in  her  anger,  was  helpless  as  a  sparrow  in 
his  hands.  The  young  Isaac  Cledworth  laughed  aloud. 

"  Not  but  what  I  do  commend  'ee,  Tamsin. 
Above  everything  in  life  I  do  like  to  see  'em  game ! 
Look  here,  Tamsin.  What's  a  kiss?  You  must 
all  make  a  fuss,  we  do  know.  I  do  love  'ee  true. 
I  never  will  be  rough  wi'  'ee.  Take  and  ha'  me. 
I'll  love  'ee  so  gentle  as  two  wood-pigeons.  Will 
'eeha'me?" 

"  I  will  tell  my  father,"  she  panted. 

"  '  Tell  my  father,'  says  she.  What  if  Isaac 
Cledworth  should  be  your  father's  choice?  Look 
here,  Tamsin !  If  your  father  do  tell  'ee  to  ha'  me 
— will  'ee  ha'  me  ?  " 

Before  Thomasine  could  frame  an  answer  to  a 
question  so  absurd,  far  below  them  the  head  of  a 
horse  came  nodding  round  the  bend  of  the  hill, 
then  the  four-wheeled  van,  then  the  "Nethertonx 
tranter  following  a  step  or  two  behind,  ready,  stone 
in  hand,  to  clap  it  under  the  wheel  when  the  moment 
came  to  give  his  horse  a  rest. 


TO  NETHERTON-TOWN  165 

It  might  be  five  minutes  before  the  carrier  could 
slowly  journey  up  to  them.  But  Isaac  Cledworth 
saw  that  for  this  time  his  wooing  was  over,  and 
cursed.  Thomasine  was  again  to  elude  him.  To 
see  her  re-arrange  her  kerchief  and  regain  her  self- 
possession,  now  that  some  one  had  come  within 
hearing,  made  him  furious  with  disappointment  and 
jealousy. 

Suddenly  he  burst  forth  with  a  torrent  of  threats, 
meaningless  and  wild. 

"  Your  father !  Tell  your  father  ?  Go  an'  tell 
the  little  black-headed  fellar  in  the  drab  cloth 
gaiters,  that  do  walk  'ee  out  into  Netherton-town. 
Go  on  into  town  and  tell  Master  Philip.  You  who 
/  do  think  yourself  too  good  for  folk  about  here. 
But  you'll  never  marry  un,  Tamsin  Scutt.  Unless 
you  can  marry  now  afore  sundown,  you  never  can 
marry  un.  You  never  will.  An'  you  never  shall 
marry  un,  so  sure  as  God's  in  heaven.  There'll 
be  no  two  ways  about  it.  You'll  wed  yet  wi' 
Isaac  Cledworth.  So  there!  " 

"  You  talk  like  a  fool,"  cried  Thomasine  in  her 
security. 

He  pointed  towards  a  bank  of  cloud  above  the 
horizon  in  the  direction  where  of  a  clear  day  the  sea 
was  to  be  seen.  It  had  imperceptibly  drawn  much 
nearer  since  she  left  Hatchbarrow. 

"  Maybe.  Can  'ee  see  anything  away  out  there, 
Tamsin  1 " 

"  I've  got  my  eyes,  I  suppose,"  said  she  angrily. 


166   THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  That's  vog.  That's  a  sea-vog.  Your  father 
or  any  man  hereabout  could  swear  to  it.  We  shall 
get  it  afore  night.  An'  I  can  see  the  other  coming 
so  clear  as  I  can  see  that  vog.  You'll  wed  wi' 
Isaac  Cledworth,  my  fine  maid.  An'  there's  no- 
thing 'pon  earth  can  stop  it." 

"  I'd  rather  be  in  my  coffin." 

"  Not  that !  There's  a  better  place  than  a  coffin 
for  the  likes  o'  you.  An'  you'll  seek  it.  May  be 
soon.  May  be  a  month.  May  be  to-morrow.  But 
come  'tis  bound  to,  sure  as  the  light.  An'  you'll 
seek  it,  Tamsin  Scutt." 

"Seek  it?" 

"  Ay — seek  it.     I  said  '  seek  it.' ' 

The  creaking  cart  was  drawing  near.  Isaac 
Cledworth  glanced  at  it,  turned  hurriedly,  cleared 
the  ditch,  and  went  back  to  his  plough  by  the  gap 
through  which  he  had  come. 

Again  the  tranter  stopped  to  give  his  horse  a 
rest.  Thomasine  took  the  opportunity  to  hasten 
on  her  way.  The  country  was  rough,  the  roads 
bad  and  heavy-laden  wheels  got  over  the  ground 
little  faster  than  a  traveller  on  foot.  Thomasine 
made  haste  to  get  far  in  front  whilst  he  laboured 
up  the  hill.  At  the  top  of  the  steep  the  tranter 
would  be  certain  to  offer  her  a  lift.  He  must  have 
seen  her  talking  to  young  Isaac,  and  was  doubtless 
already  provided  with  half  a  dozen  sly  jokes. 
Thomasine  with  her  tear-stained  cheeks  had  no 
wish  for  company,  and  did  not  want  to  ride. 


TO  NETHERTON  TOWN  167 

Now  that  she  was  safe,  her  thoughts  went  back 
to  Philip.  Everybody  knew  of  her  love  for  Philip. 
Her  parents,  the  old  aunt  Titcomb,  and  the  young 
Isaac  Cledworth  had  spoken  of  it  outright.  She 
must  tell  Philip  as  soon  as  possible.  In  her  agita- 
tion she  walked  so  fast  that  she  kept  in  front  of 
the  slow-going  carrier,  until  at  last  she  looked  down 
upon  the  slate  roofs  and  blue  smoke  of  Netherton, 
a  small  market-town  lying  deep  in  a  valley  and 
almost  hidden  by  trees. 

After  all  these  misadventures  and  agitations  un- 
expected happiness  was  awaiting  Thomasine. 

In  the  distance  a  young  man  came  loitering  upon 
the  road.  He  looked  up,  saw  her  and  quickened 
his  pace.  He  was  neatly  dressed  in  a  dark-blue 
swallow-tailed  coat  with  bright  buttons.  He  wore 
breeches  with  a  fob,  from  which,  by  a  black  watered 
silk  ribbon,  hung  a  seal.  Isaac  Cledworth  was 
right  when  he  spoke  of  drab  cloth  gaiters.  Philip 
wore  them  in  the  town.  They  were  long,  with  but- 
tons close  together,  and  fitted  as  elegantly  as  a  glove. 

"Philip!" 

Yes.     Philip  was  coming  to  meet  her. 

He  was  hastening  towards  her.  Thomasine 
slackened  her  pace  to  regain  her  composure  and 
still  further  to  arrange  her  ruffled  feathers.  More- 
over it  was  wise  to  let  the  heavy  van  go  lumbering 
by,  putting  the  tranter  safely  out  of  sight  under 
the  square  shelter  of  his  tarpaulin  tilt.  There  was 
not  another  person  in  the  whole  landscape. 


168    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

But  Philip  was  there.  He  was  with  her.  His 
arms  were  around  her — his  kisses  on  her  lips. 

Thomasine  forgot  all  her  troubles,  all  her  anxie- 
ties. Though  all  the  world  might  know,  for  the 
moment,  at  any  rate,  her  heart  was  at  rest. 

And  Philip  had  never  been  so  joyful. 

He  had  so  much  to  tell — so  much  that  was  won- 
derful, even  incredible — that  he  did  not  notice  any 
traces  of  her  recent  distress.  From  the  first  his 
talk  became  a  rapid  monologue,  with  only  now  and 
then  a  pause  to  take  breath. 

This  was  what  Philip  had  to  tell. 


169 


CHAPTER  IV 
WHAT  PHILIP  HAD  TO  TELL 

"  THOMASINE,  my  dearest  angel !  So  I  was  right. 
I  knew  it.  I  was  certain  of  it.  It  was  an  inspira- 
tion my  coming  to  meet  you  this  afternoon,  though 
everything  was  arranged  for  me  to  come  to  Hatch- 
barrow  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  overheard 
Isabel  ask  old  Marshall  whether  it  would  rain.  He 
solemnly  looked  out  of  the  window  and  said  it  was 
only  a  sea-fog.  That  word  was  enough.  From  the 
very  moment  sea-fog  was  uttered,  I  knew  it.  It 
was  magic.  I  saw  you — absolutely  saw  you,  darling, 
coming  along  this  Eddyford  road.  That  was  just 
as  the  clock  struck  twelve.  Kiss  me,  Thomasine, 
love.  I  sneaked  out  of  the  office  and  came.  I 
have  been  waiting  all  the  afternoon.  Again,  sweet- 
heart. For,  Thomasine,  dearest,  you  will  never 
in  this  world  guess  what  has  happened.  My  mother 
has  consented — deliberately,  spontaneously,  unre- 
servedly agreed,  sanctioned  and  consented.  For 
some  unimaginable  reason  old  Marshall  has  stood 
my  friend.  Oh,  Thomasine,  best  and  dearest,  I 
am  so  glad  that  all  troubles  and  petty  annoyances 
are  over.  You  have  been  so  patient  and  so  true. 


170    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Give  me  your  hand,  love.  No.  The  other,  silly 
child.  Isabel  told  me  that  a  diamond  between 
rubies  was  the  real  thing.  Do  you  like  it,  Tho- 
masine,  dearest?  Yes.  Old  Marshall!  A  man 
whom  for  years  I  have  daily  stigmatised  as  '  ass,' 
'  prudent  ass/  '  silly  ass,'  in  fact  every  variety  of 
ass,  which,  of  course,  was  contradictory,  impossible 
and  absurd.  He  has  a  lot  more  sense  than  ever  I 
believed.  He  has  told  my  mother  that  I  am  no  good 
for  the  law.  One  cannot  help  respecting  discrimina- 
tion such  as  that.  He  said  we  should  marry  in 
spite  of  her  and  she  had  better  consent.  There's 
foresight.  The  man  is  a  seer.  And  it  is  a  duty  to 
venerate  the  gift  of  prophecy — when  one  unmis- 
takably meets  with  it.  He  recommended  that  I 
should  go  farming.  He  pointed  out  that  your 
father  had  made  a  lot  of  money.  And  Court  is 
now  to  let,  and  he  has  the  letting  of  it.  You  know 
Court,  that  beautiful  little  old  manor-house,  now 
a  farm — only  four  miles  from  Hatchbarrow.  He 
says  if  my  money  is  not  enough,  that  can  easily  be 
arranged.  And  my  mother  has  consented  to  every- 
thing. I  told  old  Marshall  to  his  face  he  was  a 
brick.  It's  not  a  legal  term.  He  looked  pained. 
If  your  father  thinks  it  wise,  we  can  settle  on  Court 
at  once.  Oh,  Thomasine!  Thomasine!  Do  you 
see  what  that  means?  Do  you  really  understand 
it,  sweetheart?  If  you  will,  we  can  marry  before 
next  summer.  I  have  to  go  to  Taunton  to-night. 
Assizes  to-morrow.  And  I'll  come  to  Hatchbarrow 


WHAT  PHILIP  HAD  TO  TELL         171 

on  the  next  day.  And,  Thomasine,  I  want  you 
to  go  home  to-morrow  morning  as  early  as  you  can. 
You  can  announce  everything  to  everybody  now,  of 
course.  But  I  do  hope  you  will  not  happen  to  see 
my  mother  before  you  go.  She  might  explain  her- 
self out  of  her  obvious  duty.  Let  her  come  to 
Hatchbarrow.  She  knows  Hatchbarrow.  She's 
been  there  often  enough.  Let  her  do  the  right 
thing.  She  has  talked  a  lot  of  nonsense.  I'll  drive 
her  over.  And,  Thomasine  dear,  I  will  come  over 
towards  evening.  I  may  be  a  little  late  because  of 
these  beastly  assizes.  Meet  me  on  the  beacon, 
dearest,  in  the  afternoon.  We'll  go  down  together. 
We'll  talk  everything  over  with  your  folk.  Make 
it  right  with  your  father — and  all  that.  He  is  cer- 
tain to  like  Court.  They  say  it  is  much  better 
land  even  than  Hatchbarrow.  And  before  next 
summer,  dearest !  Think  of  it,  Thomasine.  Before 
next  summer !  Never  to  part !  Think  of  it- 
Such  great  happiness,  coming  all. at  once  on  the 
top  of  so  many  woes !  Thomasine  could  only  think 
of  it  with  tears. 


172 


CHAPTER  V 
THOMASINE'S  RETURN 

AT  Netherton-town  the  following  day  was  bright 
and  clear.  When  Thomasine  looked  out  upon  the 
morning,  from  a  window  of  the  lawyer  Marshall's 
house,  everywhere  behind  the  sunlit  chimney-pots 
she  saw  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue. 

Sea-fog  or  fair  weather  at  Hatchbarrow,  Tho- 
masine was  restless  with  eager  anxiety  to  get  home. 
Her  friend  Isabel,  full  of  excitement  at  the  turn 
things  had  taken,  swallowed  an  insufficient  break- 
fast with  imprudent  haste  in  order  to  accompany 
her  on  the  first  mile  of  her  way. 

Thomasine  felt  shy  of  the  road  by  which  she  had 
come  into  town.  Isaac  Cledworth  would  still  be 
at  plough  in  his  large  arable  ground  on  the  side  of 
Eddyford  Hill.  Cousin  Jane  Peters  was  for  certain 
looking  out  of  her  window,  and  the  old  aunt  Tit- 
comb  might  be  abroad  in  search  of  her  herbs. 
Although  the  only  other  way  was  longer  by  two 
miles,  Thomasine  crossed  the  river  by  a  bridge 
far  below  Eddyford.  Then,  by  a  track  little 
better  than  a  sheep-run  or  one  of  the  paths  made  by 
the  wild  ponies,  almost  hidden  beneath  a  rough 


THOMASINE'S  RETURN  173 

overgrowth  of  heather,  she  at  last  reached  the  road 
across  Eddy  ford  Common. 

Thomasine  not  only  started  early,  but  she  walked 
fast. 

She  laughed  as  she  went. 

Now  her  mother's  mind  would  be  at  peace !  Poor 
mother!  So  full  of  hidden  anxieties!  And  so 
good!  Now  her  father  might  indeed  have  the 
teaching  of  Master  Philip.  How  surprised  he 
would  be  to  detect  the  hidden  meaning  in  her  talk ! 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  the  land  at  Court 
a  hundred  times.  He  would  be  proud  and  glad 
indeed  to  do  his  best  with  it.  And  next  summer — 
before  next  summer — 

Oh !  what  a  crowd  of  things  to  think  about !  And 
nothing  quickens  the  pace  so  much  as  happy 
thought.  And,  besides,  there  was  no  time  to 
waste.  Her  head  was  full  of  plans  for  to-morrow. 
She  and  her  mother  would  have  to  work.  The 
house  must  be  put  perfectly  neat  and  straight. 
She  would  make  it  everywhere  gay  and  beautiful 
with  the  last  of  her  autumn  flowers.  The  spare 
room  must  be  got  ready.  Everything  settled,  of 
course  Philip  would  stay  the  night.  Oh,  yes! 
Her  mother's  mind  would  be  at  rest — except  about 
the  cooking  and  the  cakes.  Her  father  would 
have  to  put  on  his  new  holiday  suit,  and  his  white 
stock,  and 

Thomasine  went  on  arranging  these  things  over 
and  over  again,  in  a  brain  that  could  neither  cease 


174     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

nor  tire,  until,  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world,  she 
mounted  the  last  billow  of  Eddyford  Common,  and 
came  in  sight  of  home. 

She  must  needs  rest  a  moment  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill  to  draw  breath.  At  once  her  eyes  sought 
the  dear  old  homestead  where  she  had  always  lived 
so  happily  and  from  which  she  no  longer  feared  to 
part. 

Suddenly  her  gaze  became  intent. 

The  old  house  surely  presented  an  unusual  aspect. 
She  knew  every  feature  of  it  so  well,  and  the  signifi- 
cance of  every  trifling  detail,  that  the  slightest 
change  was  at  once  noticeable.  To-day  it  was  a 
familiar  countenance,  wont  to  be  full  of  joy  and 
welcome,  unexpectedly  bearing  a  strange  expres- 
sion. 

It  faced  the  south.  The  sun  was  shinir%  upon  it, 
yet  the  whitewashed  walls  between  the  flowering 
creepers  stared  irresponsive  and  cold.  The  upstair 
windows,  doubtless  closed  against  the  sea-fog,  had 
none  of  them  been  opened  to  the  clear  morning  air. 
The  place  looked  lifeless  and  uninhabited.  So  far 
as  eye  could  detect,  no  thin  wreath  of  blue  smoke, 
such  as  from  morn  to  night  was  visible  against  the 
dark  pines  even  when  the  fire  was  low,  was  arising 
from  the  chimney.  Still  more  astonishing,  the 
front  door  was  shut — the  great  oaken  door  studded 
with  nails,  and  so  well  sheltered  by  the  porch  that 
it  stood  open  summer  and  winter,  rain  or  shine, 
until  work  was  done  for  the  day  and  everybody  was 


THOMASINE'S  RETURN  175 

in  from  field  or  dairy  ready  to  gather  around  the 
hearth. 

Thomasine  stood  perplexed. 

She  made  hasty  guesses  and  cast  them  aside  with 
equal  haste. 

Her  father  and  mother  must  have  gone  away  for 
the  night  and  had  not  yet  returned.  A  ridiculous 
proposition  and  quite  impossible !  To  be  sure,  they 
would  not  be  expecting  her  that  day.  No  visit  to 
Netherton-town  had  ever  been  so  short  as  this  one. 
But  what  of  that  ?  How  could  they  possibly  leave 
the  ordinary  daily  duties  without  arrangements 
discussed  and  planned  long  in  advance  ?  Then 
Thomasine  remembered  the  mysterious  signs  which 
her  parents  had  made  to  each  other  just  before  her 
departure,  and  all  her  fears  of  yesterday  came 
back.  Could  this  absence  from  home  have  been 
foreseen  ?  Had  they  sent  her  away  without  speak- 
ing, so  that  she  might  not  know  of  it?  But  that 
was  absurd?  They  had  never  in  their  lives  been 
away  together.  Besides,  there  was  nowhere  for 
them  to  go 

Casting  aside  such  futile  guesses,  Thomasine  ran 
down  the  hill,  her  eyes  all  the  while  fixed  upon  the 
homestead,  watching  for  some  sign  of  life.  Nobody 
moved  by  the  barn  or  amongst  the  mows  or  between 
the  sheds  and  the  stable.  No  poultry  was  to  be 
seen  in  the  barton  or  scratching  amongst  the  short 
hay  beside  the  ricks.  The  fowls,  shut  up  at  night 
for  fear  of  the  fox,  had  not  been  let  out. 


176    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

She  ran  up  the  garden  path. 

The  front  door  was  not  locked  nor  even  latched. 
Creaking,  it  swung  open  under  her  pressure,  and 
Thomasine  went  in.  The  house  was  silent,  and  bore 
every  appearance  of  having  been  left  empty  in  great 
haste. 

The  wood  upon  the  dogs  had  burnt  through  and 
fallen  upon  the  hearth  on  either  side  of  a  heap  of 
white  ashes,  from  which  the  glow  had  died  out. 
On  the  table-board  was  a  loaf,  a  piece  of  cheese  and 
an  empty  cup;  as  though  her  father  had  snatched 
a  hasty  meal  before  going  away  at  some  unexpected 
hour.  She  called,  but  no  answer  came.  No  logs 
had  been  brought  in.  None  of  the  morning  house- 
hold work  had  been  touched. 

Thomasine  fetched  turf,  stirred  the  ashes  for  a 
red  ember,  built  the  half-burnt  logs  together,  and 
blew  them  into  flame.  At  the  sound  of  the  bellows 
a  step  came  slowly  to  the  top  of  the  staircase,  and 
her  mother  called: 

"Who's  there?" 

"  I,  mother.  Where  are  you  ?  What  can  have 
happened  ?  Is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"  You,  Tamsin  ?  I  didn't  allow  you  would  be 
back  so  quick.  I  didn't  hear  no  sound  o'  wheels. 
Where's  your  father  ?  " 

"  What  wheels,  mother  ?  How  can  I  possibly 
know  where  father  is  ?  " 

"  But  ha'n't  'ee  met  wi'  your  father  ?  " 

"  No,  mother." 


THOMASINE'S  RETURN  177 

"  He  drove  from  here  more  than  an  hour  agone— 
all  in  haste — to  Netherton-town — to  fetch  'ee  home." 

"  To  fetch  me  home  ?  " 

"  Ay.     Wi'  the  bay  mare  an'  cart." 

"Why?     What  for?" 

"  What!     Ha'n't  he  told  'ee  nothing?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  Then  why  did  'ee  leave  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  come  home." 

"  Then  how  did  'ee  come  ?  " 

"  I  walked.  Not  through  Eddyford  village,  but 
by  the  other  way." 

"  Like  enough.  My  poor  head  is  all  to  a  mizmaze. 
He  would  have  to  go  through  village  wi'  the  cart, 
I  do  believe." 

Thomasine  ran  to  the  staircase.  "  But  what's 
the  matter,  mother  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  Stop — stop,  Tamsin.  Stay  where  you 
be.  You  can't  come  up.  I  can't  have  'ee  to 
come  up." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  mother?  " 

"  I'm  a-feeling  none  too  well,  chile,  I  do  believe. 
Stop  there  an'  put  it  straight  a  minute,  Tamsin,  my 
dear.  Get  out  some  victuals  for  yourself.  One 
must  take  in  or  sink.  Make  up  a  fire — a  good  fire, 
so  quick  as  you  can.  Put  on  the  kettle  to  make 
me  a  few  broths.  You'll  find  it  all  to  do,  Tamsin, 
my  dear.  You  can't  come  up.  I'll  be  down." 

Perplexed  and  distressed  beyond  measure,  Tam- 
sin obeyed. 

N 


BOOK  IV.  THE  REVENUE  OF  TROUBLE 


N  2 


CHAPTER  I 
CONFESSIONS 

THE  fire  was  blazing  and  the  kettle  steaming  before 
Jane  Scutt  came  down  "  into  her  house."  She 
had  wrapt  her  shawl  about  her,  but  she  shivered 
as  she  walked  across  the  stone  floor,  and,  as  if  for 
warmth,  seated  herself  on  the  chimney  seat  in  an 
inner  corner  of  the  hearth.  Thomasine  looked  at 
her  mother  in  fear  and  wonder.  In  the  few  hours 
since  yesterday  she  had  become  thinner  than  ever. 
The  lines  upon  her  face  had  deepened.  She  moved 
as  if  tired  to  death,  and  sat  bent  like  a  feeble  old 
woman.  Her  forehead  and  cheeks  wore  a  hue  of 
yellow  that  peered  through  the  habitual  tan  which 
summer  had  deepened.  Her  clothes  were  creased 
and  rumpled.  Her  hair  was  dishevelled  and  her 
cap  on  one  side.  Thomasine  could  see  at  a  glance 
that  she  had  not  been  to  bed  that  night. 

"  I  didn'  think,  chile,  you  could  be  here  for  hours 
yet,  or — or  I  should  ha'  put  things  a  bit  straight 
for  'ee.  I  went  up  for  an  hour  to  lie  down  in  my 
clothes.  We  had  company  last  night.  Yes — 
company  that  did  bide  about  most  terr'ble  late. 
I  couldn'  get  to  sleep.  I  couldn'  close  my  eyes  a 


182    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

wink  all  night.  The  young  Isaac  Cledworth  and 
his  father,  old  Isaac  Cledworth,  the  tithingman, 
they  dropped  in — yes — they  dropped  in." 

"  Young  Isaac  Cledworth!  " 

Thomasine  uttered  the  name  with  disgust.  Even 
with  the  knowledge  that  all  was  happily  and  beyond 
all  misgiving  settled  with  Philip,  a  fear,  something 
of  a  superstition,  troubled  her  at  the  recollection  of 
young  Isaac's  threats. 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  I  do  quiver  like  a  leaf.  'Tis 
the  fall  maybe  an'  the  blackberry  season.  Not 
man  nor  woman  nor  beast  is  so  well  along  the 
blackberry  season,  or  so  the  old  folk  used  to  tell. 
I  must  boil  myself  up  a  few  herbs  for  a  bitter  drink, 
I  do  suppose." 

"  Let  me  get  out  the  brandy,  mother." 

"  No.     No.     I  shall  be  better  in  a  while 

"  Or  maybe  wi'  the  damp  o'  the  fog  an'  all  I've 
a-catched  a  chill." 

Suddenly  the  voice  and  manner  of  Jane  Scutt 
changed.  She  gave  over  whining  her  complaints 
and  ceased  from  guessing  at  her  ailments.  Her 
face  even  brightened,  and  she  spoke  with  a  warm 
enthusiasm  which,  however,  did  not  carry  the  true 
ring: 

"  But,  Tamsin,  my  maid,  I  say !  Really  an' 
truly  now !  Tamsin !  The  young  Isaac  Cledworth, 
he  is  a  fine  young  man.  A  smart  young  fellow  as 
ever  walked,  Tamsin!  An'  wonderful  good  com- 
pany, too,  as  all  the  world  do  know.  But — but 


CONFESSIONS  183 

there,  I  didn'  want  anybody  here — and — and " 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  There  is  something  more 
behind.  Something  you  are  not  telling  me." 

Jane  Scutt  hesitated.  She  rocked  to  and  fro  on 
the  chimney  seat,  staring  at  the  flames  as  if  not 
daring  to  look  her  daughter  in  the  face.  She 
moistened  her  lips  to  speak  and  yet  remained 
silent. 

"  What  is  it,  mother,  I  say  ?  " 

Alarm  was  added  to  impatience  in  this  insistence 
of  Thomasine. 

'  You  never  thought  much  o'  the  young  Isaac 
by  your  ways  back  at  the  sheep-shearing — and  by 

words  you  let   fall,   Tamsin,   now  and   again — or 
so  T " 

Ow       1- 

"  Mother !  What  can  that  have  to  do  with 
their  coming?  " 

'  You've  never  a-done  quite  justice  to  the  young 
Isaac  Cledworth,  Tamsin — you " 

"  But  what  are  you  saying,  mother  ?  Speak 
out !  " 

"  He's  a  neighbour,  Tamsin.  Our  nearest  neigh- 
bour, my  maid " 

At  this  repetition  of  the  young  Isaac's  only 
argument  Thomasine  could  no  longer  doubt  the 
purpose  of  last  night's  visit.  But  that  her  mother 
should  favour  the  suit  was  most  astounding. 

"  Oh,  mother !  Say  not  a  word  more.  For 
pity's  sake !  " 

"  An'  he've  a-catched  a  wonderful  mind  to  'ee, 


184    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

as  everybody  hereabout  do  know.  So  he  an'  the 
constable — well,  old  Isaac  his  father,  the  tithing- 
man,  I  should  say — walked  across  late  last  night  to 
speak  wi'  your  father  an'  make  offer  for  'ee, 
Tamsin "  w 

"  Oh,  never — never,  mother." 

"  Think  twice,  my  maid,  think  twice.  He's  the 
vittiest  young  fellow  in  these  parts — ay,  for  twenty 
mile  round."  As  Jane  went  on,  her  eagerness  grew 
with  every  word  she  uttered.  "  An'  his  father  do 
own  a  bit  o'  land  that  do  lie  next  to  ours — to  your 
own  that  will  be — an'  there's  more  to  be  bought. 
Think  twice.  For  he  do  love  'ee,  Tamsin,  my  dear 
— he  do  love  'ee  most  wonderful  well.  An'  if 
you've  a-set  eyes  on  young  Master  Philip,  'tis  no- 
thing, Tamsin.  For  'tis  but  a  folly  an'  a  vanity, 
an'  'twill  come  to  nothing.  An'  your  father  was 
all  for  it,  all  for  it,  when  he  came  to  listen  to  what 
they  said  and  think " 

"  But  you,  mother  ?  You  could  never  agree — 
Oh,  mother!  You?  Not  you!  Oh!  I'd  rather 
be  dead.  I've  told  him  so.  I'd  rather  be  in  my 
grave." 

^  "I  must  hold  wi'  your  father,  Tamsin,  my  dear, 
when  I  do  look  at  it  in  the  right  light  like.  More 
'an  that,  your  father  have  a'most  so  good  as 
promised.  You'd  never  go  again  your  own  father, 
your  own  father  an'  your  own  mother,  who  have 
a-worked  for  'ee  all  these  years  an'  no  other  thought. 
An'  your  father  rode  off  to  find  'ee.  For  they'll  be 


CONFESSIONS  185 

here  to-morrow,  after  work,  just  at  dark,  for  your 
answer." 

"  Answer !  Butf,  mother !  Mother  dear !  You 
know  there  could  be^but  one  answer." 

"Ah!  But  you'll  say  'Yes,'  Tamsin.  Say 
'  Yes '  'ithout  question  an'  'ithout  many  words. 
POT  God's  sake  say  '  Yes  '  an'  seek  no  further, 
Tamsin.  Question  it  no  more — when  you  do  see 
how  your  father's  mind  is  bent  'pon  it.  An'  your 
father  always  so  good — so  good  an'  indulgent — to 
us  both.  You  do  owe  it,  Tamsin.  You  must  owe 
it.  Master  Philip  is  nothing.  Tis  but  a  dream, 
Tamsin.  An'  maybe  a  rough  waking.  For  'tis  better 
to  marry  near  home — close  near  home.  You 
must  see  that.  Think  o'  your  mother,  Tamsin 
chile,  an'  raise  no  words.  A  love  fancy  is  but  a 
passing  whim  at  best.  'Tis  better  to  wed  wise. 
I  did  hope  at  one  time  that  you  should  marry  in 
the  town.  But  no !  No !  No !  I  couldn'  a-bear 
to  lost  'ee  an'  let  'ee  go  to  strangers." 

The  appeal  went  to  Thomasine's  heart. 

So  many  weeks  of  thought  bestowed  on  going 
abroad — unwilling  as  her  consent  to  it  had  been — 
the  recollection  of  it  arose  to  accuse  her  of  ingrati- 
tude. But  that  was  past.  Everything  was  to  turn 
out  happily. 

Cheer  up,  mother.     You  are  not  going  to  lose 


me.jt  So  you  need  not  take  the  part  of  young  Isaac 
afterjall." 
Thomasine    had    seated    herself    upon    a    low- 


186    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

bottomed  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  her  hand 
was  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  skirt.  Moved  by 
this  impulse  of  affection,  she  held  out  her  arms 
towards  her  mother.  The  gem  on  her  finger 
flashed  in  the  firelight. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  cried  the  woman. 

"  'Tis  a  sign,  mother,  that  the  young  Isaac  is  a 
day  too  late.  Even  if  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart, 
which  I  never  could,  to  wed  with  Isaac  Cledworth, 
I  have  promised  another.  That  was  why  I  came 
home  so  soon.  He  is  coming  to-morrow  evening  to 
see  father — to  see  you  both " 

Jane  Scutt  leaned  forward  and  interrupted  in  an 
eager  whisper: 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Not— not— not  Master  Philip !  " 

"  Yes,  Philip." 

"  Master  Philip !     Master  Philip !  " 

She  sat  upright  and  held  up  her  brown  hands 
high  above  her  head. 

"  Oh  God !  Oh !  My  God !  That  it  might  have 
been  looked  over  but  for  that  once.  An'  then  we 
had  a-promised  to  one  another  and  a-swore  to  do  no 
sin  no  more  for  ever." 

Very  quickly  she  remembered  herself  and  turned 
to  reason  with  Tamsin. 

"  But  it  can  never  be.  It  can  never  come  to 
anything.  Never  think  it,  Tamsin.  Old  hook- 
nose'll  never  agree " 

"  Mrs.  Pilton  has  agreed,  mother." 

"  But  that's  only  her  sly  way.     Have  no  hope, 


CONFESSIONS  187 

Tamsin,  my  dear.  They've  a-got  little  or  nothing. 
'Tis  long  afore  a  lawyer  can  earn  to  marry.  She'll 
get  roun'  un.  She'll  worm  a  way  roun'  his  mind 
like,  an'  you'll  be  left." 

"  No,  mother.  He  is  to  give  up  lawyeriug. 
He'll  take  Court  farm.  And  he  wishes  to  marry 
before  the  summer." 

Jane  Scutt  moaned  and  sank  back  in  the  chimney 
corner.  At  the  .same  hour  of  yesterday  this  had 
been  the  dream  of  her  life.  John  and  she  had 
talked  of  it  openly  after  the  departure  of  Tamsin. 
Within  the  kitchen  was  a  silence  so  complete  that 
Thomasine  could  hear  the  click  of  the  ash  falling 
from  the  half-burnt  log.  Years  ago,  when  the 
child  was  quite  young,  seeing  her  so  nice  in  her 
ways,  they  had  cherished  something  of  a  prophetic 
anticipation  that  the  maid  would  marry  above  her 
station.  They  had  slaved  for  it.  Loving  money, 
they  had  never  begrudged  the  penny  that  Tamsin 
might  go  fine  and  smart.  Jane  had  prayed  for  it, 
too,  in  secret,  if  the  truth  were  only  known — 
prayed  in  fear,  with  the  knowledge  and  burden  of 
her  only  half-repented  sins  upon  her  soul.  And 
now  the  silence  was  broken  by  sobs.  Tears  poured 
down  the  gnarled,  weather-beaten  face.  Moreover 
the  woman's  heart  perceived  a  tragedy  in  which  for 
the  moment  she  forgot  both  disappointment  and 
fears.  She  looked  on  Tamsin,  and  with  a  tender- 
ness never  to  be  suspected  in  one  so  primitive,  so 
rough,  she  faltered  a  question. 


i88    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Do  'ee  love  un,  Tamsin,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Dearly.  With  all  my  heart  and  soul,  mother. 
And  he  loves  me." 

The  girl's  simple,  plain  avowal  of  love  touched 
some  responsive  chord  in  the  bosom  of  the  woman 
who  had  borne  her.  In  her  imperfect  way  Jane 
Scutt  understood. 

"  Poor  lamb !  poor  lamb!  "  she  murmured. 

Dazed,  helpless,  broken  and  dumb,  she  turned 
away  and  sat  staring  into  the  fire.  Once  she  tried 
to  speak,  but  there  came  only  a  distracted  mutter- 
ing. Again,  driven  to  it  by  fear,  she  began:  "  Oh! 

Tamsin,  chile,  there's  that  behind  that "  but 

suddenly  checked  herself  and  drew  back  into  the 
chimney  corner  again,  affrighted  at  what  she  had 
been  about  to  say.  But  for  ever  the  truth  is 
present,  and  must  be  faced.  There  came  a  sigh  so 
deep  that  the  heart  of  Tamsin  trembled.  Then 
Jane  found  herself.  She  sat  up,  erect,  stiff,  hard 
as  a  carved  figure  in  a  stone  niche. 

"  Tamsin,  my  dear !  'Tis  so  well  to  know  it  first 
as  last.  Your  father  is  so  bent  on  the  young  Isaac 
that  he'll — he'll  never  bend  his  will  to  gie  other 
consent." 

A  calm  had  also  fallen  on  the  spirit  of  Thomasine. 

"  Then  I  shall  marry  Philip  all  the  same.  His 
mother  is  none  too  pleased  at  the  thought  of  it, 
though  she  has  given  way.  But  he  would  have 
stood  true  and  married  me  though  all  the  world 
were  against  it.  We  talked  of  it  many  times.  We 


CONFESSIONS  189 

knew  what  we  should  do.  We  should  have  met  in 
Netherton-town.  We  should  have  married  by 
licence  in  some  place  far  away — and  nobody  would 
have  known  until  after.  I  am  almost  of  age.  No- 
body can  stop  us.  I  shall  be  as  firm  as  Philip 
was " 

"Oh,  Tamsin!  Tamsin!  Tamsin!"  cried  the 
woman.  "  You  don't  know  what  you  do  say. 
You  be  bound  to  wed  wi'  Isaac.  Poor  chile !  You 
must — you  must.  Tis  a  matter  o'  life  or  death, 
maybe " 

Thomasine  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  What  is  it  you  are  saying,  mother  ?  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh !  What  have  I  said  ?  "  moaned  Jane  Scutt. 
But  very  quickly  she  recovered  herself  and  drop- 
ping her  voice  went  on  speaking  as  one  coaxes  a 
child.  "  Take  your  mother's  word  for  it,  Tamsin, 
my  own  poor  maid.  Seek  no  further,  Tamsin. 
I  told  'ee  by  now.  Ask  never  a  word,  but  do — an' 
th'  Almighty'll  bless  'ee  for  it.  Just  put  aside  the 
young  man  o'  Netherton-town.  He's  none  o'  your 
own  sort.  He'll  change.  Take  the  young  Isaac. 
These  fine  young  men — they  be  one  thing  in  love 
an'  another  in  marriage.  But  what  Isaac  is,  he'll 
bide.  He's  rough  maybe  to  your  thinking — but 
he's  one  like  ourselves.  Ah!  We've  a-bred  'ee 
up  too  fine,  Tamsin.  Too  fine — to  our  own 
sorrow." 

"  To    your    own    sorrow,    mother  ? "    repeated 


igo    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Thomasine,  now  roused  into  anger.  "  What  sor- 
row ?  Why  should  there  be  sorrow  because  I  have 
promised  to  marry  one  of  my  own  choice?  Life 
or  death!  What  sense  to  such  wild  talk — unless 
you  see  that  it  would  break  my  heart.  And  it 
would  to  marry  Isaac  Cledworth.  I  should  die — 
I  should  die  of  very  shame." 

"  Sit  down  again,  Tamsin.  Sit  down  an'  speak 
never  a  word.  There's  not  a  minute  to  spare,  for 
your  father  may  be  back.  You  shall  hear  the 
truth.  You  shall  know  all — every  word  o'  it.  And 
then  you  shall  judge." 

Thomasine  sat  down  without  reply,  but  away 
from  the  fire  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  old  high- 
backed  settle. 

"  Tamsin,  last  night,  after  you  had  a- went  into 
Netherton-town,  there  came  up  a  sea-vog,  as  your 
father  had  a-thought  would.  Come  closer,  maid, 
so  as  I  needn't  to  speak  out  so  loud.  Here — come 
just  to  here." 

Jane  Scutt  glanced  around,  as  if  fearing  that 
eavesdroppers  might  be  present  even  in  "  the 
house,"  and  pointed  to  the  vacant  place  on  the 
stone  seat  by  her  side. 

Thomasine  silently  rose,  crossed  the  kitchen  and 
obeyed. 

Jane's  brown  hand  grasped  Tamsin's  arm,  and 
she  went  on — never  daring  to  look  her  daughter 
in  the  face,  but  staring  beyond  her  into  space,  as 
she  pictured  in  every  detail  the  tale  she  had  to  tell. 


CONFESSIONS  191 

"  'Twas  a  vog  so  black  as  pitch  for  hours — but 
in  the  early  morning  it  lifted  into  starlight.  Your 
father  took  his  supper.  Then  he  an'  the  old  dog 
went  out  'pon  the  common,  Tamsin.  You  can't 
see  the  meaning  o'  my  words.  He  chanced  very 
quick  to  fall  in  wi'  three  sheep,  an'  the  old  dog 
brought  'em  on.  Your  father  turned  to  an'  killed 
and  skinned  'em,  and  went  off  again.  I  had  made 
ready  a  great  fire  here  all  to  a  red  glow — but  I  had 
no  chance  to  burn  the  skins.  I  had  'em — two  over 
my  right  arm,  an'  the  t'other  a-dragging  on  by  my 
left  han'  like — an'  they  catched  me,  Tamsin.  They 
came  out  from  lying  in  wait  by  the  cow-stall,  an' 
they  catched  your  mother,  your  own  mother,  Tam- 
sin, an'  they " 

"Who,  mother?     Who?" 

"  The  Cledworths.  The  old  Isaac,  an*  he  the 
tithing-man  an'  all — an'  the  young  Isaac,  his  son. 
They  catched  me  like  this  by  the  both  wristes. 
In  their  hands  I  was  no  stronger  'an  a  child.  Like 
this — like  this,  But  my  heart  sunk  within  me, 
Tamsin.  I  was  weak  as  water.  I  could  but  come. 
An'  they  dragged  me  here,  in  front  o'  the  great  fire, 
an'  into  the  light — an' — an'  they  spread  out  the 
three  skins — there — there  'pon  the  flagstones,  an' 
there  as  so  happed  was  their  own  mark,  the  C  wi' 
the  skiver  down  through,  'pon  all  the  three  o'  the 
fleeces " 

Thomasine  understood. 

The  whole  truth  came  before  her  mind  with  the 


IQ2     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

clearness  of  a  revelation.  She  had  listened  to  too 
many  fireside  tales  of  stealing  sheep  from  the  moor 
to  mistake  the  significance  of  a  single  word.  The 
true  meaning  of  that  scarcely  credible  story  of  her 
delicate  health — invented  only  to  be  rid  of  her — 
the  mystery  of  those  unexpected  visits  to  Netherton- 
town  whenever  the  mist  hung  over  the  moor,  the 
rapid  growth  of  her  father's  wealth  and  the  pur- 
chase of  Hatchbarrow,  the  hidden  significance  of  all 
these  wonders  became  suddenly  discovered.  In  the 
mirk  of  a  thick  sea-fog,  a  man  bred  on  the  moor  and 
a  silent  dog  could  bring  in  sheep  with  little  fear  of 
detection.  At  ten  paces  he  was  not  to  be  seen.  At 
an  arm's  length  he  was  scarcely  to  be  recognized. 
And  no  living  soul  can  swear  to  mutton.  That  was 
one  of  the  commonest  of  fireside  sayings.  There 
was  no  danger  if  the  thief  could  only  get  rid  of  the 
skin.  No  other  evidence  had  ever  brought  a  man 
to  the  gallows  except  the  skin — the  mark  on  the 
skin. 

This  unlooked-for  disclosure  was  most  terribly 
complete. 

Thomasine  could  only  gasp : 

"  You,  mother !     Father  and  you !  " 

In  all  Jane's  sighings  over  her  hidden  iniquities, 
in  all  her  fears  of  ill  to  come,  the  shame  of  standing 
discovered  and  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  Tamsin  had 
haunted  her  beyond  all  dangers  and  penalties  of 
the  law.  In  Tamsin's  lament  was  no  reproach,  only 
surprise  and  heartbroken  sorrow. 


CONFESSIONS  193 

In  spite  of  the  danger  hanging  over  them,  the 
mother's  first  instinct  was  to  excuse  herself. 

"  We  be  sinners,  God  knows.  Wicked  sinners ! 
But  we  did  it  all  for  you,  child.  There  was  no  other 
thought,  an'  many  a  time  we've  a-said  it.  Our  Tarn- 
sin  shall  be  well  off.  Our  Tamsin  shall  have  no 
need  to  work,  we  said  in  our  pride.  For  we  have 
a- worked,  Tamsin,  your  father  an'  I.  We  never 
stole  to  spare  ourselves.  We  never  lived  high,  we 
never  lay  soft.  We  scarce  sat  down  from  morn  to 
night.  All  our  hopes  were  to  make  'ee  a  lady.  Ever 
since  you  came  to  us,  the  only  one,  an'  so  late.  For 
you  were  always  from  the  first,  Tamsin,  so  nice  in 
your  ways.  Why,  when  you  were  but  a  toddler — 
no  more  'an  knee-high — if  should  chance  but  a  smut 
to  fall  'pon  your  little  bare  arm — why,  you'd  cry, 
Tamsin — you'd  cry  till  I  did  jus'  touch  o'  it  like  wi' 
the  tip  o'  my  tongue  and  rub  it  off  wi'  my  apern. 
You  was  nothing  for  this  hard  work,  Tamsin,  my 
dear,  an'  we  saw  it.  How  you  corned  to  us,  rough 
as  we  be,  I  never  couldn'  think.  Yes.  We  saw 
it,  Tamsin — we  saw  it — an'  though  we  prospered 
we  sinned  an'  we  put  'ee  to  school  an'  all.  But  I 
ha'n't  a-told  'ee  everything  now.  There's  more  an' 
may  be  worse  to  come " 

Jane  Scutt  stopped. 

Emotion  had  broken  the  thread  of  her  narrative, 
and  she  needs  must  press  her  hands  upon  her  lined 
forehead  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

Thomasine  did  not  speak.     Everything  was  clear 

o 


194    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

before  her  mind — the  love — the  oft-repeated  crime — 
and  the  present  peril.  She  sprang  up  from  the 
settle.  Trembling  between  pity,  fear  and  love,  but 
in  utter  helplessness,  she  seated  herself  by  her 
mother's  side  and  clung  to  her  arm.  The  woman 
drew  her  closer,  pressed  her  to  her  bosom,  and 
encouraged,  went  on  more  eagerly  than  before — 
her  words  coming  faster  with  each  sentence : 

"  Your  father  picked  up  two  suckers.  He 
brought  'em  home.  How  should  he  know?  He 
was  off  afore  the  Cledworths  took  me.  But  the 
Cledworths  hadn'  a- went.  They  had  not  gone, 
Tamsin — oh,  maid!  He'll  be  hanged  for  the 
ponies,  for  certain  sure.  Old  Isaac  is  the  tithing- 
man.  He's  the  constable.  He  took  'em  away  in 
the  name  o'  the  law.  To-day  he'll  find  the  little 
mares  on  the  common — an'  the  mares'll  own  'em, 
Tamsin.  Tis  their  mother's  nature,  Tamsin.  They 
can't  help  theirselves,  Tamsin.  They  can't  forget 
so  soon.  They'll  wicker.  They'll  run  an'  own  'em, 
Tamsin.  They'll  gie  suck.  Why!  If  'tis  only  to 
ease  theirselves — gie  suck  they  must.  An'  that'll 
be  proof — proof  so  clear  as  eye-witness  a' most. 
They'll  hang  your  father — they  little  mares.  An' 
your  father  do  know  it.  He  tried  to  face  it  out 
that  the  suckers  were  our  own  an'  the  sheep  a  mis- 
take. But  after  constable  had  a- went,  your  father 
came  in  an'  zot  down  there — there  where  you  got 
up  from.  He  had  never  a  word  for  hisself  then — nor 
I  one  to  help  un  wi'.  He  zot  so  silent  as  a  dead  man." 


CONFESSIONS  195 

Jane  Scutt's  voice  had  sunk  lower  and  lower, 
until  it  was  scarcely  to  be  heard.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  vacant  corner  of  the  settle  as  if  John 
were  still  there.  Then,  perhaps  unconscious  of 
what  she  was  doing,  she  muttered,  "  Let  be  a 
minute,  Tamsin,"  and  rose  and  lifted  the  kettle,  long 
ago  boiling  to  waste,  to  one  side  out  of  the  flame. 

She  sat  down  on  the  opposite  seat  of  the  hearth 
away  from  Tamsin  and  continued. 

Every  movement,  every  gesture,  every  word 
spoken  in  that  part  of  the  story  yet  to  come  had 
graven  itself  so  deep  upon  her  brain  that  presently 
it  was  no  longer  a  tale  she  was  telling.  She  spoke 
only  the  bare  dialogue,  even  imitating  the  voices. 
Ignorant  though  she  was,  Jane's  unstudied  art  made 
it  all  terribly  clear. 

"  Oh !  they  Cledworths !  The  cunning  o'  they 
Cledworths!  It  might  be  a  half  hour,  or  a  little 
better — ay — more,  an'  then  they  corned  back.  They 
never  knocked  to  door.  They  walked  straight  in — 
the  constable  in  front  an'  the  young  Isaac  at  his 
heels.  Your  father  thought  they  had  a-comed  to 
take  un.  You  do  know  your  father,  Tamsin.  Ah ! 
His  way !  He  stood  up  there — over  there,  so  stern 
— wi'  his  back  to  the  wall.  But  the  old  Isaac  only 
said,  '  Sit  down,  neighbour,  an'  exchange  a  word 
or  two.'  I  seed  your  father's  countenance  light  up. 
He  do  know  they  Cledworths.  He  thought  they 
Cledworths  'ud  take  money.  The  old  man  he  did 
all  the  talking  an'  the  young  Isaac  stood  by. 

o  2 


196    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  '  A  tithing-man  is  chose  to  look  after  the  law. 

"  '  But  not  to  go  beyond  it/  put  in  your  father. 

"  '  That's  true,  neighbour.  But  the  parish  would 
hold  wi'  me  where  the  case  do  look  so  black.  Now, 
a  jury,  I  wouldn't  swear.  Maybe  the  mark  now— 
so  much  like  your  own.  An'  such  a  dark  night,  too, 
and  you,  maybe,  short  o'  mutton.  An',  to  be  sure, 
we  may  never  prove  the  suckers — we  can  but  try. 
An'  none  better  pleased  'an  myself  an'  Isaac  to 
bring  'em  back  to  'ee.  But  we  corned  back  now  wi' 
another  intention.' 

"  '  There's  fools  'ull  believe  anything.  There's 
no  case.  Still  I'd  rather  do  more  than  a  little  not  to 
have  such  a  thing  said.  We  can  make  it  right ' 

"  '  Hush,  neighbour,  if  you  should  offer  to  buy  a 
tithingman  't'ud  look  so  terrible  bad  in  the  box. 
No.  'Tis  well  known  our  Isaac  is  wild  in  love  wi'  your 
Tamsin.  There's  some  do  say  he  must  be  witched. 
Now  we  be  come  to  make  a  offer  for  your  Tamsin.' 

"  '  There's  no  chance  o'  it.  I  don't  offer,  but  I'd 
pay  money  if  asked ' 

"  '  Not  too  fast,  neighbour.' 

"  '  She  shall  choose  for  herself.' 

"  '  Exactly.  We  do  but  offer.  Tamsin,  we  do 
know,  is  in  to  Netherton-town.  Fetch  her  home 
to-morrow,  neighbour.  Lay  our  offer  before  her 
quick  as  you  can.  To-morrow  may  be  fog.  Like 
enough  we  shan't  be  ready  till  next  day.  Say  late 
in  afternoon.  We'll  look  round,  if  all  is  right,  for 
the  answer.' 


CONFESSIONS  197 

'  Tis  no  good.    Do  your  worst.' 

'  Maybe    there's    no    worst,    neighbour.     Look 
round  we  must,  I  know.     I  said  for  an  answer  if 
all  is  right.    Mark  me,  no  Cledworth,  for  love  or 
money,  'ud  wed  wi'  the  maid  of  a  convick.' 
"  '  Tis  no  good  to  come  on  such  errand.' 

'  But  come  we  must.  If  we  don't  have  to  take 
'ee,  we  can't  be  so  rude  as  to  leave  'ee  in  doubt. 
No  maid,  neighbour,  do  know  her  mind  till  she's 
asked.  I  do  believe,  Tamsin  'ull  take  un.  We  be 
neighbours.  Just  think  how  the  land  do  lie.  An' 
if  Tamsin  do  gie  the  word  young  Isaac  can  go  there- 
right  an'  put  in  the  banns  for  first  time  o'  asking 
Sunday  next.  There  can  be  no  need  to  wait.  To 
be  sure,  you'd  settle  Hatchbarrow  'pon  your  only 
child — keeping  a  life  interest,  of  course.  So  neigh- 
bours, we'll  say  good-night.' 

"  An'  wi'  that  they  walked  out.  But  oh !  they 
Cledworths !  The  cunning  o'  they  Cledworths !  An' 
the  old  man  so  soft  as  new  milk,  yet  so  hard  as  a  sea- 
pebble.  We  talked  the  night  through,  Tamsin,  my 
maid,  your  father  an'  I.  There's  no  chance  wi'  'em. 
They  be  all  envy  an'  covetousness.  Though  the 
young  Isaac  do  love  'ee  wonderful.  He  do  that. 
An'  a  fine  young  man,  too,  that  half  the  world  could 
be  proud  o'.  He  is  that.  An',  oh  Tamsin !  There's 
no  light,  nor  way  nor  hope.  Love  or  no  love — 
promise  or  no  promise — faith  or  no  faith — Master 
Philip  could  never  wed  wi'  the  maid  of  a  man  that 
was  hanged." 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  DECISION 

THERE  was  nothing  more  to  be  told. 

Thomasine  and  her  mother  remained  sitting  by  the 
hearth  weeping  in  silence.  They  had  found  comrade- 
ship in  their  adversity  and  in  their  fear.  Once  Jane 
raised  her  head  and  whispered  "  Hark !  "  It  was 
nothing.  The  wind  was  rising,  and  a  gust  had  rum- 
bled in  the  head  of  the  chimney.  It  drove  a  cloud 
of  smoke  out  into  the  room.  Although  they  did  not 
mention  his  name,  they  were  both  listening  intently 
for  the  return  of  John.  They  were  both  in  fear  of 
his  coming.  Rough  and  masterful  even  in  his  good- 
humour,  with  Thomasine  his  downright  ways  had 
passed  for  plain  blunt  honesty.  To  her  he  had 
always  been  kind.  From  childhood  she  had  never 
feared  him.  But  the  father  of  the  past  was  gone. 
Now  she  was  afraid.  His  foot  crossing  the  threshold 
— then  the  next  step  towards  humiliation  and 
misery. 

"  Hearken  again !  " 

They  both  listened.  This  time  the  sound  of 
wheels  was  unmistakable.  But  to-day  no  shout 
came  from  the  barton.  The  silence  had  its  signifi- 


THE  DECISION  199 

cance.  There  were  no  purchases  from  Netherton 
to  be  fetched  into  the  house.  Never  since  she  was 
big  enough  had  Tamsin  failed  to  run  out  to  meet  her 
father  on  his  return  from  town.  Now  she  sprang  up 
to  flee  from  him.  By  the  door  she  stopped. 

"  Ay.  Run  away,  Tamsin,  my  dear.  Tis  no 
good  to  wait.  I'll  talk  to  your  father  myself." 

Then  Thomasine  crept  away  upstairs,  took  refuge 
in  her  room  and  locked  the  door.  She  was  suffo- 
cating— choking.  There  was  no  air — no  air  in  the 
room.  She  opened  the  window  and  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed. 

All  that  was  solid,  certain,  firm  and  abiding  in 
this  life  had  suddenly  crumbled  from  beneath  her 
feet.  If  the  integrity  of  her  father  were  an  illusion 
there  could  be  nothing  real,  nothing  on  earth  to  rest 
upon.  Everything  was  false.  They  themselves, 
all  of  them,  were  false.  Hatchbarrow  was  not  theirs. 
She  was  no  longer  Philip's,  and  Philip  could  never  be 
hers. 

Again  and  again,  without  rest,  all  the  circum- 
stances went  chasing  each  other  through  her  brain. 
Like  a  bird  encaged,  she  turned  every  way  only 
to  beat  once  more  against  the  same  bars.  She  was 
in  a  labyrinth  where  every  path  not  closed  led  back 
to  the  same  place. 

To  tell  Philip  was  to  make  known  her  father's 
shame.  If  she  told  nothing,  on  Sunday  the  banns 
might  be  read  in  church  to  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood. Then  what  could  he  think  of  her  in  the  face 


200    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

of  all  her  promises  ?  How  was  he  to  explain  her  to 
his  friends  ? 

She  could  never  consent. 

With  the  thought  of  refusal  she  remembered 
the  young  Isaac's  threats.  She  could  find  no  hope 
that  the  Cledworths  would  be  merciful.  Their  plot 
had  been  too  carefully  prepared.  The  constable 
might  be  tempted  with  money,  but  the  fierce  love  of 
the  young  Isaac  was  not  to  be  bought  off.  They 
had  thought  of  everything,  even  to  the  settlement 
of  Hatchbarrow!  Oh!  let  them  have  Hatch- 
barrow.  All  delight  in  Hatchbarrow  was  gone  for 
ever,  since  that  was  how  it  was  got.  Let  them  have 
Hatchbarrow  if  only  she  might  go  free — free  and 
somewhere  far  away,  where  not  even  a  whisper 
could  carry  the  story  of  her  shame. 

And  presently,  as  if  unaware  of  her  distress,  the 
little  everyday  occurrences  of  house  and  farm  began 
to  move  around  her  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

She  heard  her  father  go  out  of  the  house,  come  in 
and  go  again.  Very  soon  came  the  passing  of  the  cows 
and  the  scent  of  their  milky  udders.  She  heard  the 
taking  of  the  pails  from  the  garden  wall,  and  then 
the  singing  of  the  milk  against  the  staves.  For  the 
daily  business  will  go  forward  whatever  may  befall. 
John  and  Jane,  after  a  short  talk,  had  drifted  into 
the  current  of  everyday  life.  And  every  little 
sound  they  made,  in  its  commonplace  familiarity 
became  cruel  and  inexorable. 

It  seemed  to  Thomasine  that  there  was  no  way 


THE  DECISION  201 

and  no  hope.  This  thing  must  go  forward  like 
everything  else  upon  this  earth  moving  irresistibly 
towards  some  unseen  end. 

"Oh  God!  Let  me  die!  Let  me  die  quickly! 
Oh  God!" 

The  loathsome  horror  of  marriage  with  Isaac 
Cledworth  arose  before  her  in  all  its  hideous  details — 
to  touch  him — to  be  wife  to  him 

"  Oh !     Let  me  die !     Let  me  die !  " 

All  other  fear  was  swallowed  up  in  the  presence 
of  this  overwhelming  terror.  Thomasine  burned 
with  shame.  A  chill,  icy  and  damp,  seized  upon  her 
and  froze  her  blood.  She  trembled  like  an  ague. 
Thomasine  came  near  to  meeting  with  the  fulfil- 
ment of  her  prayer.  From  the  very  centre  of 
her  bewilderment,  as  it  were  a  grave  face  in 
the  midst  of  a  tumultuous  crowd,  came  the 
thought  that  she  held  it  in  her  power  to  die  if  she 
would.  She  could  consent — or  let  her  father  carry 
her  consent.  But  they  could  never  make  her 
marry.  Let  them  call  the  banns.  Let  them  fix  the 
wedding.  Let  them  arrange  as  they  might  think  fit. 
She  would  hide,  lock  herself  up,  elude  Isaac,  as  she 
had  always  done,  until  the  time  drew  near.  Her 
father  would  be  safe  by  then.  They  could  do 
nothing — prove  nothing — after  these  weeks  had 
elapsed.  Then — her  father  safe  but  Philip  lost — at 
night  she  could  steal  up  to  the  Beacon  Head,  pass 
through  the  dark  wood  and  throw  herself  from  the  cliff. 
The  thought  quieted  her.  She  could  breathe  again. 


202    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Towards  twilight  her  mother  came,  tried  the  door 
and  knocked. 

"  Open,"  said  Jane,  "  I  want  a  word  wi'  'ee, 
chile." 

"  No.     Not  yet,  mother.     Leave  me  alone." 

"  But  you  must  have  a  bit  to  eat." 

"  No,  mother.     I  do  not  want  anything." 

"  Not  to  come  down,  Tamsin,  my  dear.  I  don't 
say  that.  Open.  I've  a-brought  it  to  'ee." 

"  No.  Nothing.  Go  away  and  leave  me, 
mother." 

"  I'll  put  it  down  at  your  door,  Tamsin." 

It  was  no  good.  Jane  creaked  down  the  stairs 
defeated. 

Presently  Thomasine  became  conscious  of  a 
distant  hum,  a  constant  murmur  that  rose  and  fell 
but  never  ceased,  like  the  distant  voice  of  the  river 
in  flood  when  heard  from  the  moor.  Her  ear  had 
never  before  caught  a  sound  from  the  kitchen,  except 
when  her  mother  opened  the  door  and  raised  her 
voice  to  call.  But  she  knew  that  they  were  talking 
— talking  always  about  her.  After  dark  her  mother 
came  and  knocked  again.  But  Thomasine  made 
no  reply.  And  all  through  the  still  night  the  moan 
of  their  talking  and  planning  went  on.  They  might 
arrange  what  they  woJd.  Thomasine  would  do 
nothing.  She  could  ne^er  see  Philip  again.  She 
could  not  lie  to  him.  She  could  not  tell  him  that  her 
father  was  a  thief.  They  might  plan  and  arrange, 
but  they  must  carry  out  their  plans  for  themselves. 


THE  DECISION  203 

Thomasine  determined  to  remain  locked  in  her 
room.  The  Cledworths  might  come  and  go.  Her 
father  must  deal  with  them  as  best  he  could  and 
afterwards  they  could  tell  her  what  had  been  done. 
Before  the  night  was  through,  Thomasine  had  found 
the  acquiescence  that  comes  of  despair. 

Daybreak  came  at  last  with  happy  sounds  of 
awakening  life. 

The  turkeys  flew  down  from  their  roost  in  the 
trees  ready  to  wander  away  by  the  lane.  The 
geese  gobbled  their  intentions  concerning  some 
distant  stubble.  Earlier  than  usual — before  it  was 
fully  light — she  heard  her  father  go  away.  Her 
mother  stole  upstairs  once  more,  laid  her  ear  against 
the  panel  of  the  door,  and,  hearing  nothing,  crept 
noiselessly  away.  At  last  from  sheer  exhaustion 
Thomasine  fell  asleep. 

Towards  noon  she  awoke  with  a  start.  The 
bright  sunlight  was  streaming  in  through  the 
window,  for  the  day,  as  it  came  from  heaven,  was 
as  glorious  as  yesterday,  when  she  walked  home- 
ward across  the  moor.  But  at  the  door  her  mother 
was  knocking,  this  time  with  a  determination  not 
to  be  refused. 

"  Open,  Tamsin.  Your  father  an'  I  have  a- 
talked.  I  do  want  a  word  wi'  'ee,  my  dear." 

"  Leave  me  alone,  mother.     Leave  me  alone." 

"  No,  Tamsin.  Open,  chile.  Verily  an'  truly 
we  have  a-found  out  the  way." 

Tamsin  got  up  and  turned  the  key. 


204    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  I've  a-brought  on  a  few  broths  in  my  hand," 
said  Jane. 

That  was  her  name  for  a  basin  of  bread  and  milk. 
And  she  stood  by  and  made  Tamsin  eat. 

"  Didn't  you  say,  Tamsin,  that  Master  Philip  is 
to  come  to-day  evening?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  You  must  go  out  an'  stop  un  from  the  house. 
Your  father  do  say  he  can't  come  here." 

"  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  mother." 

"  But  you  must.  He'd  come.  He'd  fall  in  wi' 
they  Cledworths.  Now  listen,  Tamsin,  for  we've 
a-thought  it  all  out  clear.  You  must  say  to  Master 
Philip  that  your  father  won't  hear  a  word  of  it. 
Say,  Tamsin,  if  he  should  once  give  Master  Philip 
a  '  No  '  right  out,  he  is  stubborn  as  a  bull.  Say 
you  must  wait.  Say  you  can  manage,  chile,  if  you 
do  but  wait  an'  catch  the  moment  like.  Then  Master 
Philip  will  go  away  an'  no  harm  done  'atween  'ee." 

"  Mother,  if  everything  could  be  hushed  up,  I 
know  it.  I  can  never  marry  Philip  now." 

"  Tis  wild  talk,  Tamsin.     That'll  pass." 

"  No,  mother.     No.     No " 

"  But  listen  to  me  a  minute,  chile."  Jane's  voice 
sank  into  a  whisper  so  full  of  guile.  "  They  Cled- 
worths have  a-set  a  trap.  Why  not  we?  First, 
your  father  'ull  try  all  he  can  to  buy  the  constable. 
Mind,  he  can't  pay  down,  there  right.  That  can't 
be  expected.  An'  they  Cledworths  can  never  move 
once  they  do  let  the  time  pass." 


THE  DECISION  205 

Jane  paused,  but  Tamsin  spoke  not  a  word. 

"  If  that  should  be,  an'  you  do  act  prudent  like, 
an'  Master  Philip  none  the  wiser,  why,  in  a  week 
you  can  win  your  father  round  to  consent,  an'  all 
be  well.  Can't  you  see  that,  Tamsin  ?  " 

But  Thomasine  gave  no  comfort. 

"  An'  if  not  that,  your  father'll  gain  time.  You 
to  promise  the  young  Isaac  if  needs  be,  but  not 
allowing  the  banns.  Tis  all  out  o'  reason  about 
they  banns.  La!  The  time  o'  danger  past,  you 
can  break  it  off  like,  to  be  sure;  many  a  maid  do 
an'  thought  none  the  worse.  For  they  Cledworths 
'ud  take  money  then — that  or  nothing — you  bet  a 
guinea.  An'  if  they  have  a-talked,  your  father  can 
deny  it  outright." 

Thomasine  only  sighed  and  wept. 

"  But  if  the  banns  must  be,  Tamsin,  trust  to  your 
mother.  Your  mother  'ull  send  'ee  away  out  of  all 
finding.  We'll  gie  out  as  afore  that  you  do  always 
ail  o'  the  cold  winter  here.  There'll  be  no  surprise. 
We'll  swear  the  young  Isaac  took  a  word  wrong  an' 
put  in  the  banns  unpromised.  It  'ud  fit  to  how  you 
did  treat  un,  Tamsin.  Lauk !  Against  your  father's 
words,  there's  none  would  believe  the  Cledworths. 
Not  Master  Philip.  No  fear.  An'  then  your  father 
would  gie  consent.  Can't  you  see  it,  Tamsin  ?  " 

Thomasine  could  see  it.  Her  eyes  were  opened 
to  the  crafty  world  around  her,  in  which  she  had 
grown  up  in  innocence  without  suspicion  of  any- 
body. And  Jane  stood  awaiting  her  approval. 


206    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Say  no  more  of  Philip,  mother.  Never  men- 
tion his  name  to  me  again,"  cried  she,  and  turned 
away  and  hid  her  face. 

Jane  did  not  understand. 

"  Do  as  your  father  do  wish,  I  do  beg  o'  'ee, 
Tamsin,"  she  implored.  "  You  be  everything  to 
we,  my  dear.  You  have  a-been — you  be — an'  you 
shall  be.  Can  'ee  think  what  your  father  said  in 
the  night,  chile?  I  tell  'ee  what  your  father  said. 
He  stood  out  there  in  the  kitchen,  an'  he  pointed 
his  finger  'pon  the  floor,  an'  he  said,  '  Afore  God ! 
If  Master  Philip  did  stand  there,  an'  swear  he'd 
wed  her  come  what  may,  I'd  dare  'em  to  their 
worst,  if  I  was  to  be  hanged  for  it.'  An'  he  would, 
Tamsin.  He  would." 

The  words  went  to  Thomasine's  heart.  In  spite 
of  all  she  knew  them  true. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  mother.  I  will  go  and 
tell  Philip  not  to  come." 


207 

CHAPTER  III 
THOMASINE  TELLS 

"  LEAVE  me  to  myself,"  pleaded  Thomasine.  "  I 
shall  do  quicker  alone." 

For  Jane  had  stayed  to  help  her  get  ready,  and 
Jane  was  full  of  fears  and  haste.  Her  fingers  trem- 
bled so  that  she  not  only  did  but  undid.  Thomasine 
noted  the  frequent  glances  which  her  mother  cast 
from  the  window,  as  if  expecting  at  any  moment  to 
see  Philip  ride  into  the  barton.  And  all  the  while 
Jane  continued  to  counsel  prudence,  to  explain  and 
repeat  and  assure  that  all  would  come  right  in  the 
end,  if  Tamsin  would  only  act  a  little  bit  careful  and 
wise  like. 

This  constant  reiteration  of  the  same  pitiable 
arguments  wearied  Thomasine.  She  must  tell 
Philip  that  her  father  withheld  consent,  but  how 
could  she  tell  him  or  hide  from  him  she  was  never 
to  marry  him.  She  felt  herself  entangled  in  the 
meshes  of  the  universal  prevarication  and  un- 
truth. 

"  Yes.  Leave  me  to  myself,"  she  repeated  in 
utter  weariness. 

Conscious  of  her  inability  to  be  of  use,  Jane  wept 
and  withdrew. 


208    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Left  alone,  Thomasine  set  herself,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, to  remove  the  traces  of  her  sleeplessness  and 
of  her  tears.  Although  the  sun  was  shining,  a 
biting  wind  swept  through  the  sheltering  trees,  and 
dead  leaves  went  drifting  across  the  barton  and 
before  the  house.  Winter  was  in  the  air.  A  chill 
clung  around  her  heart.  Thomasine  shivered. 
From  a  drawer  she  took  the  long  cloak  of  dark 
green  freize,  which  had  been  put  away  ever  since 
the  spring,  and  wrapt  it  around  her.  She  drew  the 
hood  over  her  head.  Thus  disguised,  she  hurried 
downstairs  and  started  upon  her  way. 

As  she  went  through  the  garden  there  came  a 
step  in  the  barton. 

She  stopped — her  heart  beating  in  fear  lest  it 
might  be  Philip. 

Her  father,  coming  in  from  the  fields,  had  already 
passed  between  the  stacks  and  through  the  gate 
into  the  yard  before  he  caught  sight  of  her.  He 
believed  himself  unobserved.  Thomasine  was  just 
in  time  to  see  him  step  hurriedly  aside  and  hide 
himself  behind  one  of  the  projecting  buttresses  of 
the  old  barn. 

The  terrors  of  her  mother  had  not  brought  before 
her  mind  the  humiliation  of  the  Scutts  more 
forcibly  than  did  this  little  touch  of  conscience- 
stricken  cowardice.  Tears  rushed  into  her  eyes. 
With  head  averted,  Thomasine  strode  across  the 
barton  to  the  lane  leading  to  the  moor. 

Often  forced  to  stop  to  regain  breath,  she  toiled 


THOMASINE  TELLS  209 

up  the  stony  rift  where  once  she  had  gone  so  gaily, 
and  reached  the  Beacon  Head.  She  mounted  the 
cairn,  from  the  top  of  which  she  could  see  for  miles, 
but  no  horseman  could  her  eyes  discover  upon  the 
broad  moor.  The  wind  came  sweeping  across  the 
sea,  everywhere  breaking  its  surface  into  short, 
fretful  waves.  At  that  height  it  was  blusterous, 
unceasing  and  very  cold. 

Since  Philip  was  not  yet  in  sight  Thomasine  must 
have  some  time  to  wait.  Nor  had  she  the  heart  to-day 
to  watch  from  the  crest  of  the  beacon  and  wave  a 
welcome  to  Philip  from  afar.  She  drew  her  cloak 
more  closely  around  her,  and  crouched  down  under 
the  shelter  of  the  boulder  which  had  formerly 
served  them  for  a  seat.  The  wind  rushed  whistling 
by.  The  swish  and  moan  of  waves,  breaking  and 
receding  amongst  the  rocks  below  the  cliffs,  alter- 
nated with  sad  monotony.  They  seemed  to  call  to 
her  and  promise  a  sure  way  out  of  a  life  wherein 
what  appeared  most  certain  proved  illusion  and  no 
hope  was  to  be  trusted. 

Thus  Thomasine  waited  long,  until  at  last,  what 
with  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  the  hood  deafening 
her  ears,  Philip  came  unheard  and  found  her 
behind  the  stone.  His  first  thought  was  that  she 
was  playing  hide  and  seek  with  him. 

His  voice  startled  her. 

"  I  have  found  you  then.  I  thought  I  was  here 
first.  It  would  have  served  you  right,  you 
little  deceiver,  if  I  had  overlooked  you  and 

p 


210    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

ridden  away  down  to  Hatchbarrow  in  search  of 
you." 

He  came  in  the  best  of  spirits,  glowing  with  love, 
full  of  news — the  Philip  of  the  day  before  yesterday, 
but  further  elated  with  his  gallop  across  the  moor, 
for  lawyer  Marshall's  horse  was  reeking  with  sweat. 
In  his  light-hearted  way  he  began  at  once  to  carry 
on  the  story  where  it  was  broken  off  at  Netherton- 
town. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  ?  Such  news !  Old 
Marshall,  giddy  old  widower,  is  going  to  marry  my 
mother.  Their  elderly  hearts  are  softened  towards 
all  lovers  by  the  influence  of  Love.  Therein  lies  the 
explanation  of  the  mystery.  My  mother  is  more 
than  anxious  for  me  to  have  Court.  So  is  he.  He 
tells  her  it  will  be  the  making  of  me  to  get  me 
settled.  But,  Thomasine,  dear,  I  have  come  as 
soon  as  I  could.  Poor  child,  to  be  waiting  in  the 
wind.  How  wise  to  wrap  yourself  up.  If  you  had 
been  standing  by  the  beacon,  upon  my  word,  I  could 
scarcely  have  recognized  you " 

He  had  dismounted  and  taken  her  in  his  arms. 
He  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

Thomasine  could  neither  resist  nor  speak. 

Her  misery  disclosed  itself  in  a  great  sob. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Thomasine  dear  ? 
Poor  child,  to  wait  so  long.  But  you  might  have 
been  sure,  dearest,  that  I  would  not  delay  one 
moment.  If  my  case  seems  to  lack  evidence,  look 
at  the  horse.  Look  at  him.  The  dear  old  amorous 


THOMASINE  TELLS  211 

old  Marshall  would  drop  down  and  die  of  a  fit  if  he 
could  see." 

The  girl  could  not  make  a  direct  reply. 

"  There  is  a  linhay  in  the  corner  by  the  gate 
below.  The  wind  is  cold.  The  horse  will  be  in 
shelter  there.  I  must  not  stay  long." 

"Not  stay  long,  Thomasine?  My  own  love! 
Why  are  you  talking  like  this?  Not  stay  long! 
I  am  coming  home  with  you,  am  I  not  ?  " 

"  Don't  kiss  me,  Philip !  Don't.  I  have  come 
to  break  it  off,"  she  sobbed. 

"  Break  it  off !  What  has  happened  ?  Every- 
thing has  changed  for  the  best,  Thomasine.  I  have 
no  longer  to  think  of  my  mother.  She  wishes  us 
to  marry  at  once — what  do  you  mean?  Break 
it  off!" 

He  pressed  her  head  against  his  breast  and  bent 
over  her,  kissing  and  comforting  her  as  one  does  a 
frightened  child. 

"  Don't,  Philip,"  she  begged  of  him.  "  It  makes 
it  so  hard." 

"  What  is  it,  little  one,"  he  whispered. 

She  could  not  find  words  to  tell  him  then.  For 
answer  she  only  drew  him  toward  the  path.  They 
went  down  the  rocky  descent,  he  leading  her  and 
supporting  her.  Once  she  almost  fell.  But  he 
caught  her.  His  arm  around  her  waist,  he  half 
carried  her  over  the  stones,  with  the  panting, 
weary-legged  horse  dragging  on  the  rein  and 
stumbling  behind.  Thus  they  got  to  the  bottom  of 

P  2 


212    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

the  hill.  Whilst  he  stabled  the  horse  in  the  shed, 
she  sat  down,  on  a  heap  of  dried  bracken,  that  had 
been  cut  that  autumn  on  the  moor  and  brought 
down  to  serve  as  bedding  for  cattle. 

She  had  come  meaning  to  tell  him  the  fable  that 
her  father  refused  consent.  Now  that  the  moment 
was  come,  in  the  unselfish  purity  of  their  love  she 
recovered  her  simplicity  of  soul.  She  must  tell  all. 
Her  native  sincerity,  which,  throughout  the  years 
of  her  simple  girlhood,  had  grown  and  matured  un- 
hurt by  the  presence  of  a  single  weed  of  suspicion, 
reasserted  itself.  One  thing  only  remained  true 
and  real.  She  still  trusted  to  Philip's  love.  It 
compelled  her.  She  could  neither  deceive  him  nor 
withhold  one  syllable  of  the  truth. 

"  Don't  touch  me,  Philip.  Don't — don't  say  you 
love  me.  Sit  dowa*.  I  have  something  very  ter- 
rible— something  beyond  all  that  you  can  believe — 
to  tell  you." 

She  nid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  yielded  to  a 
paroxysm  of  tears.  Philip  stood  silent  and  motion- 
less in  the  presence  of  an  emotion  so  profound. 
Once  Thomasine  attempted  to  speak,  but  her 
tongue  faltered.  The  words  choked  her  and  failed. 
At  last  she  controlled  herself,  and  her  voice,  although 
very  low,  was  steady  and  calm. 

"  When  I  promised  to  marry  you,  Philip,  I 
thought — I  thought  that  the  Scutts  were  as  good  as 
anybody — better — better  than  many,  seeing  that 
my  father  had  been  so  successful  and  made  a  way 


THOMASINE  TELLS  213 

for  himself.  Now,  at  last,  I  know  the  truth.  Now 
I  know  how  Hatchbarrow  was  got — in  part,  at 
least.  We  are  sheepstealers.  We  are  horse-thieves. 
We — the  Scutts— that  I  boasted  were  so  honest.  I 
come  of  no  stock  to  marry  a  good  man.  If  I  could 
have  hidden  it  from  you,  I  should. always  know  it 
myself.  If  it  could  be  hushed  up  now)  after  years 
it  might  come  out  to  your  Shame." 

"  John  Scutt  a  sheepstealer !  Nonsense,  Thomas- 
ine.  A  thief  is  never  an  industrious  man.  Who 
said  so  ?  This  is  a  place  full  of  idle  tales.  How  do 
you  know  this?  " 

"  The  two  Cledworths  lay  in  wait  and  caught 
them  in  the  act.",- 

"When?" 

"  In  the  sea-fog  the  night  before  last." 

In  misery  and  shame  her  eyes  were  turned  away 
from  him.  She  did  not  see  it,  but  the  face  of  Philip 
became  very  grave.  Inconceivable  as  the  state- 
ment had  been,  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  dis- 
believe. 

Suddenly  alive  to  the  danger  of  John  Scutt,  he 
asked  quickly : 

"  Has  the  constable  taken  action?  " 

"  He  is  coming  to-night,  he  and  Isaac — presently. 
The  sheep  were  theirs.  There  were  ponies,  too. 
The  old  man  is  pretending  to  identify  the  ponies. 
And,  Philip!  He  will  only  keep  silence  if  I  will 
marry  Isaac.  Oh!  What  can  I  do?  If  I  do  not 
promise  to  marry  him  at  once,  they  will  take  father 


214     THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

to-night.  If  I  promise,  the  constable  will  let 
it  pass." 

"  The  scoundrels !  " 

For  a  while  Philip  was  silent. 

"  Did  your  father  agree?  " 

The  old  spirit  of  loyalty  still  lingered  in  Thoma- 
sine's  heart.  She  tried  to  shield  her  father — to 
save  him,  as  far  as  possible,  in  the  estimation  of 
Philip. 

"  No.  He  did  not  agree,"  she  replied  eagerly. 
"  He  did  not  know  of  our  love.  He  left  it  to  me.  They 
are  coming  to-night  for  the  answer.  I  was  told  to 
come  and  meet  you,  but  to  keep  you  from  the 
house.  I  was  to  tell  you  that  father  will  not  con- 
sent to  our  engagement,  and  so  gain  time.  Then 
father  will  try  to  buy  them  off.  If  so,  we  were  to 
be  engaged,  and  you  none  the  wiser.  But  I  cannot 
do  it,  Philip.  I  cannot  marry  you  to  deceive  you 
when  you  love  me  so  much.  And  they  will  not  be 
bought  for  money.  They  say  Hatchbarrow  shall 
be  given  to  me.  They  will  not  be  bought  for  any 
sum.  I  know  they  will  not.  Oh!  What  can 
I  do?" 

"  Tell  me  everything — just  as  it  happened." 

He  spoke  calmly,  something  like  a  lawyer  en- 
deavouring to  extract  the  last  word  from  a  reluctant 
client.  His  self-possession  strengthened  her  confi- 
dence. Thomasine  told  the  whole  story,  slowly, 
clearly,  in  all  its  squalid  details — just  as  her  mother 
had  told  it  to  her. 


THOMASINE  TELLS  215 

"  Were  you  going  to  promise  Cledworth, 
Thomasine?  " 

"What  could  I  do?" 

"  To  marry  him?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  I  would  never  have  married  him. 
No,"  she  shuddered. 

"  The  scoundrels !  "  cried  he  again. 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  continued: 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  may  completely  set  your 
mind  at  rest,  Thomasine,  so  far  as  the  Cledworths 
are  concerned.  Now  listen.  You  will  have  to  do 
exactly  what  I  tell  you.  So  listen  very  attentively. 
You  may  have  to  promise,  but  you  can  never  be  in 
any  real  danger  whatever.  At  what  time  are  they 
coming  ? 

"  After  work  is  done.  Quite  late  in  the  after- 
noon, or  at  least  in  time  to  act  without  letting 
another  night  pass." 

"  Where  are  your  father  and  mother  now  ?  " 

"  They  will  very  soon  be  out  milking." 

"  The  talk  will  be  in  the  kitchen  ?  " 

"  Yes.     In  the  kitchen." 

"  Well,  go  home,  Thomasine  dear.  Keep  quietly 
out  of  the  way,  so  that  you  need  not  speak  to  your 
people.  At  any  rate,  tell  them  nothing  about  me, 
or  say  I  saw  the  wisdom  of  not  seeing  your  father 
to-day.  Everything  is  quite  safe.  Have  no  fear. 
Be  present  at  the  interview.  Refuse  as  long  as  you 
can.  Let  your  father  offer  money.  If  they  are 
tempted  to  take  it,  well  and  good.  There  is  an  end 


216    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

to  the  matter.  If  not,  go  on  refusing.  Make  them 
bargain.  Gain  all  the  time  you  can.  Make  them 
threaten.  Constable  has  no  time  to  waste,  for  he 
has  delayed  the  information  quite  long  enough 
already.  Hold  out  until  he  comes  to  a  dangerous 
point.  Then  give  way.  Promise  as  if  you  meant 
it.  But  have  no  fear.  The  Cledworths  will  soon 
find  that  they  have  a  little  matter  of  their  own  to 
settle.  You'll  never  hear  more  of  the  promise 
after  to-night.  The  Cledworths  will  be  off  their 
bargain  almost  as  soon  as  they  have  made  it.  Your 
father  will  hear  no  more  about  it.  But  if  they  will 
take  money,  leave  them  alone.  If  not — well,  you 
will  see.  Before  they  have  time  to  rejoice,  there 
will  be  a  surprise  for  them.  Believe  me,  this  is  so 
certain  that  I  could  take  a  grim  delight  in  their  con- 
fusion, if  you  were  not  so  unhappy,  Thomasine  dear." 

He  spoke  so  confidently,  almost  cheerfully,  that 
Thomasine  gained  courage. 

"  We  must  leave  all  the  rest  for  the  present, 
Thomasine.  Have  we  not  said  a  hundred  times 
that  nothing  can  ever  change  our  love.  I  shall  see 
you  again  very  soon,  dearest — perhaps  late  to-night, 
after  the  Cledworths  have  gone.  So  good-bye.  A 
very  short  good-bye.  As  you  sometimes  say, 
Thomasine — au  revoir.  You  had  better  go  alone. 
We  will  not  be  seen  together.  Have  no  fear.  I 
have  not  spent  years  grubbing  in  the  office  of  old 
Marshall  for  nothing.  Truly  I  could  laugh  at  the  pre- 
dicament of  the  Cledworths,  if  you  were  not  so'  sad." 


THOMASINE  TELLS  217 

Philip  respected  her  wish.  They  parted  without 
endearment  or  caress  and  without  a  single  word  of 
love-making. 

Philip  hurried  back  into  the  shed  and  remained 
out  of  sight  until  Thomasine  was  gone. 

Thomasine,  comforted  with  his  promises  of  help 
and  assurances  of  safety,  found  courage  and  very 
quickly  disappeared  in  the  lane  between  the  high 
beech  hedgerows. 


218 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  SURPRISE 

THE  kitchen  at  Hatchbarrow  presented  no  sombre 
aspect  whilst  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  old  Isaac 
Cledworth  and  his  son.  Whatever  the  fears  of  the 
Scutts,  they  had  determined  to  put  a  good  face  on 
the  matter  and  brave  it  out  as  long  as  they  could. 
Candles  had  been  lighted.  A  good  fire  of  logs 
blazed  on  the  dogs.  The  kettle  was  boiling  merrily, 
and  a  spirit  decanter,  with  glasses,  sugar  and  spoons 
had  been  set  out  on  the  table  as  if  in  anticipation 
of  jollity  and  to  assure  a  hearty  welcome  to  the 
arriving  guests. 

But  each  one,  after  a  different  fashion,  betrayed 
an  agitation  which  it  was  hopeless  entirely  to  sup- 
press. 

Jane  had  taken  her  seat  in  one  corner  of  the 
settle,  her  hands  under  her  apron,  her  head  bent, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  lap. 

But  her  hands  twitched,  her  head  shook  and  her 
eyes  shed  tears. 

John  was  in  his  armchair  by  the  side  of  the  hearth. 
The  face  of  John  Scutt  was  stern  and  rigid,  and  his 
jaw  more  square  than  ever. 


THE  SURPRISE  219 

Scarcely  to  be  noticed,  Thomasine  had  taken 
a  seat  between  the  dresser  and  the  clock,  far  from 
the  fire,  in  the  gloom,  where  the  dark  oaken  beams 
and  furniture  drank  up  the  dim  candle-light. 

So  they  waited  and  listened  in  silence. 

The  Cledworths  were  long  in  coming.  Their 
want  of  eagerness  seemed  to  forebode  the  worst. 

The  delay  pressed  heavily  upon  Jane,  and  she 
sighed  and  sighed.  She  was  for  ever  raising  false 
alarms.  "  Here  they  be.  Here  they  be,"  when 
there  was  nothing. 

Such  weakness  angered  John. 

"  If  you  do  mean  to  show  fear,  you  had  better 
get  out  o'  the  way.  Sit  up,  can't  'ee  ?  "  he  growled 
angrily. 

Jane  sighed  deeper  than  ever,  swallowed  her 
fears  as  best  she  could  and  made  distressing  efforts 
to  sit  still. 

At  last  the  approach  of  visitors  was  undeniable. 
The  clatter  of  feet  on  the  stones — the  last  muttered 
conference  by  the  mouth  of  the  porch — the 
scraping  and  rubbing  of  boots  at  the  door — then 
the  latch  lifted. 

John  Scutt  rose  hastily,  went  to  the  door,  and, 
with  a  welcome  less  boisterous  than  usual,  but 
a  welcome  all  the  same,  invited  the  Cledworths  to 
come  in. 

The  little  tithingman  was  in  the  familiar  cord 
breeches  with  the  flat  buttons  at  the  knee,  but  the 
young  Isaac  had  changed  his  working  garments  for 


220    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

his  Sunday  clothes,  and,  with  a  white  dahlia  as  big 
as  a  tea-saucer  in  his  buttonhole,  assumed  the 
jaunty  self-satisfaction  of  a  village  bridegroom. 
They  entered  with  the  innocent  air  of  neighbours 
looking  in  of  an  evening  to  smoke  a  pipe. 

"  Good  evening,  Jane." 

The  face  of  the  constable  was  unusually  merry 
and  bright  as  he  shook  hands  with  Jane  with  the 
warmth  of  an  old  friend. 

"How  be,  Tamsin?  " 

The  countenance  of  the  young  Isaac  wore  a  more 
than  ever  self-satisfied  grin  as,  with  this  greeting, 
he  held  out  his  hand  to  Tamsin,  who  neither  looked 
at  him  nor  spoke. 

At  this  refusal  to  answer  him  his  lips  drew  apart 
into  a  smile  half  cruel,  half  tolerant.  He  enjoyed 
that  greatest  luxury  of  a  mean  spirit — a  knowledge 
of  the  power  to  enforce  his  will  and  inflict  pain  upon 
the  weak.  In  her  pale,  tearful  face  he  foresaw  the 
triumph  of  his  threats,  and  though  he  believed  he 
loved  her — and  did,  as  best  he  might — the  sight  of 
her  tears  filled  him  with  inward  j  oy . 

"  Make  room  for  Isaac,  Jane.  Take  the  settle, 
neighbour,"  said  John  Scutt. 

Gladly  enough  Jane  gave  place,  and  retired  out 
of  the  way  to  the  chimney-corner.  The  Cledworths 
sat  down  side  by  side  on  the  settle,  full  in  the 
firelight  and  opposite  to  John  Scutt. 

The  constable  did  the  talking  and  began  at  once. 
If  the  young  Isaac  had  the  muscles,  the  little 


THE  SURPRISE  221 

tithingman  had  the  wit.  But  he  talked  about 
everything  except  the  business  in  hand.  No  man 
of  sense  will  ever  dive  head-first  into  delicate  nego- 
tiations. It  is  better  to  creep  in  and  make  no 
splash.  A  moorland  farmer  begins  by  talking 
about  turf-cutting  or  stag-hunting,  or  the  addition 
of  a  twin  to  some  neighbour's  family,  when  he 
hopes  to  bring  about  the  purchase  of  some  promis- 
ing young  bullock. 

"  Wool  is  dropped  again,"  said  the  old  Isaac, 
thoughtfully  looking  at  the  ceiling. 

"  So  they  do  tell  me,"  replied  John  Scutt,  as 
usual  rubbing  his  square  chin. 

"  You  got  out  o'  yours,  neighbour,  just  after 
shearing,  so  I  do  believe." 

"  I  did." 

"  But  you  be  always  in  the  right,  neighbour, 
either  by  luck  or  judgment." 

To  which  congratulation  John  Scutt  replied  only 
with  the  snort  which  often  dismissed  unwelcome 
reference  to  his  wealth. 

"  Or  maybe  both,"  added  the  old  Isaac  with  a 
very  bland  smile. 

At  which  compliment  John  Scutt  shook  his 
head  with  impatience,  as  if  considering  it  not 
worthy  of  a  reply. 

"  You  be  thoughtful,  neighbour,"  laughed  the 
constable  after  a  pause.  "  Thoughtful  enough  to 
put  out  the  bottle,  but  too  full  o'  thought  to  ask 
us  to  drink." 


222    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Without  a  word  John  Scutt  rose  and  went  to 
the  table  to  mix  the  grogs. 

"  Not  a  drop,"  said  Cledworth,  raising  both  his 
hands.  "  Twas  but  a  joke.  Tis  early  yet.  Be- 
sides, there  'ull  no  doubt  be  a  better  reason  afore 
the  night  is  much  older." 

He  turned  merrily  round  to  Thomasine. 

"  So  you  be  back  again,  Tamsin.  True,  the  misk 
did  not  last  long,  so  you  had  no  need  to  think  o' 
your  health.  Besides,  a  fine  young  man  came  along 
to  look  for  'ee,  eh,  Tamsin  ?  To  be  sure,  any  maid 
'ud  soon  be  home  then.  No  doubt  your  folk  have 
a-gied  'ee  Isaac's  message,  an'  here  he  is,  so  fine  as 
a  bird  o'  Paradise  in  the  mating  season,  to  fetch  the 
answer." 

Then  John  Scutt  spoke  out  in  his  old  blunt 
manner. 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is  this — have  you  brought 
back  my  ponies  ?  " 

"  Keep  to  one  thing  at  a  time,  neighbour.  Take 
the  pleasant  first.  Always  through  life  do  that. 
A  trouble  feared  may  never  come  in  the  end. 
How  many  times,  haymaking  or  harvest  now,  do 
a  man  fear  rain  an'  the  clouds  blow  over  after  all  ?  " 

"  Then  I  must  believe  from  your  own  words  that 
you've  a-found  out  your  error.  No  Cledworth  for 
love  or  money  could  wed  the  maid  o'  a  thief.  Then 
act  the  man — own  yourself  wrong." 

The  old  Isaac  perceived  the  difficulty  and  pre- 
tended to  reflect. 


THE  SURPRISE  223 

"  Did  I  say  so  much  as  that  ?  How  could  any 
man  know?  Truly  now,  come  to  think  o'  it,  I 
must  ha'  said  '  convicted  thief.'  " 

He  glanced  round  and  winked  at  young  Isaac. 
But  John  Scutt  caught  sight  of  the  wink,  and  it 
hardened  within  him  his  old  spirit  of  resistance  and 
stubbornness. 

"  Our  Tamsin  is  not  ready  wi'  a  '  Yes  '  or  a  '  No,' 
Isaac  Cledworth,"  said  he  roughly.  "  She  is  not 
the  sort  to  marry  in  haste.  An'  we  are  not  the 
sort  to  bundle  her  into  church  like  chucking  a  sheep 
into  a  sheep  wash.  That  must  be  left." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Why  talk  more  ?  "  said  old 
Isaac  calmly,  and  rose  from  his  seat. 

John  Scutt,  taking  no  notice,  went  on  doggedly 
talking. 

"As  to  the  two  sheep,  they  were  yours,  as  the 
marks  did  prove.  That  was  my  mistake.  I  own 
to  that.  Forty  shillings  a-piece  is  the  outside 
value  o' " 

"  But  the  ponies,  neighbour  ?  So  we  do  come  to 
the  ponies  after  all." 

"  — the  outside  value,  I  say,  of  a  far  better  sheep. 
As  to  the  ponies — as  you  know  by  this  time — they 
be  mine.  I  had  a-picked  'em  up  for  fair  an'  kept 
'em  shut  away  in  a  linhay.  I  was  fetching  'em  in 
for  the  morning " 

"  Why  talk  an'  explain  so  much  about  it,  John 
Scutt?  There's  no  need.  What  I  do  know,  I  do 
know.  An'  for  that  matter,  so  do  you,  too." 


224    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  I  do  know  that " 

"  None  can  know  better  'an  you,  John  Scutt. 
So  why  so  much  talk  an'  so  many  questions?  " 

His  manner  had  become  threatening,  but  he  turned 
to  Thomasine  and  dropped  once  more  into  jocularity. 

"  I  shall  talk  to  none  but  Tamsin.  I've  a-got 
a  partic'lar  fancy  for  Tamsin — always  had.  I  shall 
tell  Tamsin  some  o'  the  wonders  o'  the  world. 
Tamsin,  my  dearie,  your  father  is  so  rich  that  your 
mother  do  burn  a  skin  worth  full  a  crown  when- 
ever he  do  kill  a  sheep  at  midnight.  Your  father  is 
so  lucky,  Tamsin,  that  a  strange  mare  'ull  mother 
every  one  o'  his  ponies.  All  the  parish  is  full  o' 
your  father's  luck,  Tamsin.  Have  a-been  for  years. 
'Tis  said  every  one  o'  his  mares  do  litter  just  like 
any  old  sow.  For  every  mare  he  do  own,  so  they 
do  say,  he  can  sell  ten  suckers  of  a  season.  Oh! 
They  do  talk,  I  'sure  'ee — about  he,  an'  you  an' 
the  sea-fog.  You'd  be  well  off  married  to  a  honest 
man.  Now.  I've  a-brought  no  charge.  Say  the 
word,  my  maid." 

"  No — no — no,"  sobbed  Thomasine. 

"  We  be  doing  well,  Isaac.  Many  '  Noes  '  is  the 
beginning  o'  '  Yes.'  All  good  maidens  be  bound  to 
blurt  out  a  few  '  Noes  '  at  the  outset." 

"  To  save  talk,  ask  any  price  you  like  for  the 

sheep "  began  John  Scutt,  with  an  impatient 

wave  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  could  stand  no  more  of  it. 

"  Any  price — you  heard  that,  Isaac,"  cried  the 
constable. 


THE  SURPRISE  225 

But  he  took  no  notice  whatever  of  John  Scutt, 
and  continued  to  talk  to  Thomasine. 

"  I  do  want  Tamsin  to  understand.  One  o'  we 
two  must  go  a  errand  afore  folk  be  a-bed.  We've 
a-changed  our  coats  for  the  purpose.  There's  no 
time  to  lose.  Either  Isaac  do  ride  up  to  parsonage 
to  put  in  the  banns — or  I  myself  do  ride  to  the 
justice  to  take  out  the  warrant.  Either  one  o'  us 
should  be  back  in  a  hour.  T'other  could  bide  to 
keep  'ee  all  company.  If  your  father  should  run 
meanwhile,  might  be  held  to  prove  his  guilt.  Now 
then,  Tamsin!  What  do  'ee  say?  Say  the  word, 
maid." 

"  No — no "  repeated  the  girl. 

"  Very  well,  then.     Here's  off." 

In  a  very  determined  manner  the  old  Isaac  took 
two  steps  towards  the  door.  Then  he  stopped. 

"I  be  off,  Tamsin.  Gwaine.  Say  the  word, 
Tamsin .  Gwaine — gwaine — gwaine ' ' 

With  each  word  he  raised  his  voice  and  took  a 
further  step  towards  the  door.  With  his  hand 
almost  on  the  latch,  he  paused  again.  Like  an 
auctioneer,  who  delays  the  falling  of  the  hammer, 
he  argued  very  quietly,  with  convincing  pauses  and 
self-restraint. 

"  You  do  know  an'  fully  understand  no  doubt 
the  possible  consequences,  Tamsin,  of  your  decision. 
The  jury  might  believe  your  father's  tale — but  if — 
by  chance — not — the  worst  is  the  gallows  and  the 
best  is  overseas  for  life." 

Q 


226    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Suddenly  he  lifted  his  voice  again. 

"  Gwaine — gwaine " 

One  more  step  and  once  more  he  softened,  almost 
coaxed. 

"  Now  let  young  Isaac  ride  up  to  the  passon's 
an'  all  settled.  Where  could  'ee  ever  find  a 
healthier,  vittier  young  man?  An'  there'll  be 
none — no,  not  one'iii.the  whole  county — that  will 
so  much  as  cast  eyes  on  'ee  after  next  assize." 

Tamsin  felt  her  courage  sink.  A  terrible  misgiving 
seized  hold  of  her.  She  feared  that  in  telling  Philip 
she  had  not  spoken  about  the  banns.  If  she 
let  young  Isaac  go.,  the  banns  would  be  in  before 
Philip  could  act. 

"  Gwaine — gwaine — very  well  then,  Isaac.  All 
over.  John  Scult  offered  any  price.  You  as  a 
witness.  You  stay  an'  watch  John  Scutt.  Here's 
off." 

"  Promise !  For  God's  sake !  Promise,  Tamsin, 
my  child.  Save  us,  Tamsin.  Save  your  father — 
an'  your  mother  what  bore  'ee.  Save  us — same  as 
we  both  said." 

It  was  the  cry  of  Jane. 

Unable  longer  to  endure  the  cunning  torture  of 
the  tithing-man,  or  to  control  her  fears,  she  had 
leapt  to  her  feet.  She  rushed  forward  to  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  held  out  imploring  arms  towards 
Tamsin. 

The  courage  of  Thomasine  had  wavered  at  the 
mention  of  the  banns,  but  her  heart  grew  firm  at 


THE  SURPRISE  227 

this  terrified  appeal  of  her  mother's  despair.  She 
dared  not  let  the  constable  go.  If  the  banns  must 
be  called — they  must.  Philip  had  promised  to 
save  her.  And  Philip  had  clearly  told  her  to 
promise  if  she  must. 

"Will — will  that  settle  everything?  "  she  stam- 
mered. 

The  constable  saw  that  he  had  won  and  came 
back  into  the  room.  Soft  as  a  cat's  paw  with  a 
kitten,  gently  persuasive  and  clearly  explanatory, 
he  went  on  talking  to  Thomasine. 

"  Everything,  Tamsin,  my  dear.  There's  not  a 
soul  outside  this  room  can  ever  get  hint  o'  what's 
gone  an'  past.  Say  the  word.  'Tis  dead  and 
buried.  Dead  an'  buried,  did  I  say  ?  It  never 
was  born.  Tis  nothing.  Melted  like  a  smoke. 
Gone  like  a  dream." 

Then  his  crafty  mind  saw  the  cHance  to  snap  up 
one  more  small  advantage,  and  whilst  continuing 
to  talk  to  Tamsin,  he  turned  his  head  towards  John 
Scutt. 

"  Though,  to  be  sure,  your  father  would  only  wish 
to  lay  down  the  forty  shillings  apiece — the  mere 
value  that  he  his  own  self  put  upon  the  sheep. 
Always  a  honest  man,  sure,  your  father  would  be 
the  first  to  wish  to  pay  for  his  mistake.  Then  all's 
done  and  settled." 

"  I  consent,"  murmured  Thomasine. 

John  Scutt  quickly  drew  a  bag  from  his  pocket 
and  counted  four  sovereigns  on  to  the  table.  It  was 

0  2 


228    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

quite  wonderful  to  see  the  dapper  way  in  which  the 
constable  stepped  forward  and  transferred  them  to 
his  own. 

"  Now  then,  John  Scutt,  is  the  time  for  a  drop 
out  o'  your  bottle.  Come,  come,  Isaac.  Get  up  an' 
gie  your  young  woman  a  kiss.  Then  all  drink 
health  to  the  young  couple.  Then  off  to  the 
passonage.  Passons  be  birds  do  roost  early — some 
o'  'em  at  least.  Hark !  What's  that  ?  " 

Something  had  certainly  moved  behind  the  high- 
backed  settle. 

In  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  in  the  recess  formed  by 
the  projecting  chimney-breast,  a  large  cupboard 
had  been  made  by  the  addition  of  a  door.  That  door 
had  creaked. 

Then  with  a  quick  step  an  unsuspected  listener 
walked  out  into  the  open  room. 

"  You  scoundrels!  "  cried  a  voice. 

The  men  all  leapt  to  their  feet  and  stood  aghast. 

"Master  Philip!" 


229 

CHAPTER  V 
DISCOMFITURE 

BEWILDERMENT  fell  on  everybody  present. 

At  the  appearance  of  Master  Philip  all  the  men 
knew  that  the  matter  was  now  by  no  means  settled; 
but  not  one  of  them  realized  at  once  the  importance 
of  this  sudden  intervention  of  a  reliable,  disinterested, 
well-instructed  witness  of  the  whole  proceedings. 

"  Scoundrels !  "  cried  Philip  louder  than  before. 

At  this  repeated  insult  the  young  Isaac,  his  fists 
clenched,  advanced  towards  Philip.  In  any  mo- 
ment of  doubt  that  was  his  argument,  and  it  often 
proved  sufficient.  But  old  Isaac  nimbly  stepped  in 
front  of  his  son. 

"  Stand  back,  you  fool,"  said  he  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "  Keep  the  law  wi'  a  lawyer,  or  you'll 
come  off  worst." 

John  Scutt,  a  fist  resting  on  the  table,  stood 
frowning.  He  knew  that  Tamsin  must  have  told 
her  lover,  but  the  end  of  that  he  could  not  foresee. 
As  to  Jane,  after  her  scream  of  "  Master  Philip!  " 
she  sank  back  again  into  the  corner.  The  coming 
of  Philip  to  her  was  a  romance.  In  her  mind 
Master  Philip,  beside  himself  at  being  parted  from 
Tamsin,  had  crept  into  the  house  in  order  to  see 


230    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

her  once  more.  But  all  her  plans  were  broken. 
All  her  schemes  were  now  of  no  avail.  All  her 
hopes  were  gone.  She  threw  her  apron  over 
her  head  in  shame  of  all  that  Master  Philip  must 
have  heard. 

The  little  tithing-man  was  the  first  to  recover  his 
self-possession.  Master  Philip  was  the  lover  of 
Tamsin.  He  had  no  doubt  that  he  had  been  com- 
pletely outwitted  by  the  superior  cunning  of  John 
Scutt,  advised  by  Master  Philip.  He  saw  quite 
clearly  that  the  game  was  up.  But  old  Isaac  was 
not  easily  put  out  of  countenance. 

"So  ho !  "  cried  he,  making  as  if  to  go.  "A 
plot,  then !  An'  a  very  mean  plot,  too,  I  do  call 
it.  Come  on,  Isaac.  There'll  be  no  need  to  trouble 
passon.  Tis  the  Justice  we  must  visit.  'Tis  a 
warrant  we  shall  want " 

With  such  loud  talk  as  this  he  thought  to  be 
implored,  or  it  might  be  even  paid,  to  keep  a  still 
tongue,  and  so  to  get  out  of  the  house  with  some 
show  of  bravery,  and  hear  no  more  of  a  matter 
which,  if  known,  might  get  him  into  trouble  as  a 
tithing-man  and  make  him  the  laughing-stock  of 
the  whole  country-side. 

Master  Philip  stepped  between  him  and  the  door. 

Then  there  is  something  to  be  got,  was  the  imme- 
diate thought  of  Cledworth. 

But  Master  Philip  took  a  most  unexpected  and 
astounding  view  of  the  proceedings. 

"  You're  quite  right,  Cledworth,"  said  he  calmly. 


DISCOMFITURE  231 

"  You've  no  time  to  lose  waiting  about  here,  drink- 
ing the  brandy  of  the  man  you  ought  to  be  appre- 
hending. After  forty-eight  hours  it  will  look  none 
too  well.  But  I'll  walk  along  with  you  and  lay  my 
information  at  the  same  time.  Then  you  and 
Isaac  and  John  Scutt  can  stand  your  trial  at  the 
same  assize." 

"I  and  Isaac?" 

"  Certainly." 

"What  for?" 

"  You  do  not  suppose  that  any  gentleman  on 
earth  would  stand  in  with  you  rascals  in  such  an 
infamous  deal  as  this,  do  you?  You  can  call  me 
as  a  witness,  as  well  as  Isaac,  as  to  Scutt  offering  you 
money.  And  you  have  put  his  money  in  your 
pocket,  mind  that.  I  can  call  Miss  Scutt  against 
you.  Come  along." 

"  But  what's  it  all  about?  "  gasped  Isaac,  for  he 
felt  he  was  out  of  his  depth. 

"  Why,  Scutt 's  robbing  the  common,  and  you 
and  Isaac  condoning  the  felony.  And  you  a 
tithing-man !  The  doings  of  Eddyford  will  be  mak- 
ing quite  a  stir  in  court  next  spring.  There  will  be 
pleasant  reading  for  the  parish.  Come  along. 
Eddyford  seems  likely  to  lose  sight  for  a  time  of 
a  few  most  important  parishioners,  if  I  know  any- 
thing about  it.  Or  if  you  would  rather  not  have 
company,  we  can  go  apart." 

Old  Isaac  narrowly  scanned  the  face  of  Master 
Philip. 


232    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

He  had  known  him  all  his  boyhood  as  a  merry, 
good-humoured  youth,  but  now  his  features  were 
as  hard  and  stern  as  a  county-court  judge,  with 
whom  old  Isaac  had  once  made  acquaintance  in 
respect  of  a  warranty  of  a  horse.  He  knew  nothing 
but  gossip  about  Master  Philip  and  Tamsin.  He 
did  not  believe  in  any  serious  courtship.  The 
lip  of  the  tithing-man  quivered.  He  was  not  sure 
that  a  gentleman,  like  Master  Philip,  might  not  feel 
in  honour  bound  to  expose  a  crime  against  the  com- 
mon. At  the  same  time  a  doubt  arose  in  his  mind— 
a  doubt  of  considerable  weight — as  to  whether  a 
young  lawyer,  with  his  way  in  the  world  to  make, 
might  not  expect  to  derive  advantages  from  cases 
carried  into  court.  He  wavered  between  fear  of 
integrity  and  a  deeply  rooted  belief  in  universal 
guile.  Yet  how  did  Master  Philip  get  there  ?  Some- 
body must  have  told  him.  Had  John  Scutt  been 
in  to  consult  the  old  lawyer  Marshall?  He  had 
been  to  Netherton  for  certain.  Old  Isaac  glanced 
at  John  Scutt's  face,  so  gloomy  and  perplexed,  then 
at  the  back  of  Jane's  apron,  but  found  no  con- 
solation. 

"  Come  along,  Cledworth." 

By  a  flash  of  genius  the  old  Isaac  perceived  that 
his  only  safe  plan  was  to  stand  by  neighbour  Scutt. 
He  was  as  full  of  wiles  as  a  fox.  Never  long  with- 
out a  resource,  even  though  a  poor  one,  his  tongue, 
once  wound  up,  would  run  as  long  as  an  eight-day 
clock. 


DISCOMFITURE  233 

"  Bless  my  heart,  Master  Philip,  how  black  you 
do  look.  Felony!  What  felony?  There's  no 
felony.  An'  can  be  no  condonation  without.  Pack 
o'  nonsense !  Well,  now,  'tis  too  bad — so  'tis.  You 
ought  to  know  me  by  this  time.  All  the  years  I've 
a-kep'  my  own  parish  church  to  Eddyford.  An' 
poor  old  passon,  your  very  own  father,  kirsened  all 
the  one  an'  twenty,  an'  prepared  for  confirmation, 
Isaac  there  an'  all.  I  take  it  very  much  amiss  o' 
you,  Master  Philip,  I  do.  For  I  did  but  come  to 
take  the  money  for  a  couple  o'  sheep  that  neigh- 
bour Scutt  picked  up  by  mistake.  Didn'  I,  Isaac  ? 
I  don't  blame  neighbour,  come  to  think  o'  it.  They 
was  very  slovenly  marked,  I  own  that;  Wadden 
'em,  Isaac  ?  Two  I  bought  an'  marked  wi'  a  brush, 
an'  the  tar  had  a-runned  down  from  the  brush,  or 
wi'  the  heat  o'  the  sun.  Hadn'  it,  Isaac?  An' 
turned  the  C  into  a  sort  of  a  S  like.  Didn'  it, 
Isaac?  An'  you  can  come  roun'  to  my  place  an' 
see  'em  if  you  be  a-minded.  An'  as  to  neighbour  kill- 
ing by  night,  'tis  well  known  why.  He  do  kill  when 
Tamsin  do  go  to  Netherton-town — because  Tamsin, 
being  so  delicate,  is  so  nice  in  her  mind,  she  can't 
ate  the  meat  if  she  have  a-cast  eyes  on  the  carcase. 
All  the  parish  do  know  that.  Don't  'em,  Isaac?  " 

In  admiration  of  such  stupendous  ingenuity 
John  Scutt  looked  up. 

Jane  quickly  uncovered  her  head  and  stared. 

"  But  the  ponies,"  interposed  Philip  in  Cled- 
worth's  own  words  and  manner. 


234    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Say  no  more.  Now,  there,  Master  Philip,  I 
must  an'  will  own  I  was  wrong.  Isaac  an'  myself, 
I  being  the  tithing-man,  do  often  look  roun'  a  bit. 
'Tis  nothing  but  right.  An'  I  said,  '  Isaac,  you  be 
crazy  wi'  love  for  Tamsin  Scutt,  an'  though  she's  no 
worker — an'  to  my  mind  no  good  for  a  farmer's 
wife — an'  a  lot  too  proud  in  her  ways  for  any  wise 
man,  you'll  be  no  good  for  victuals  nor  work  till 
you  do  know  your  fate  like.  We'll  take  the  oppor- 
tunity to  step  into  Hatchbarrow  an'  speak.  Now 
to  see  John  Scutt  bring  in  suckers  as  he  did,  did 
rouse  a  fair  suspicion  like.  Didn'  it,  Isaac?  An' 
we  thought  nothing  but  right  to  take  they  suckers 
in  the  name  o'  the  law.  We  took  'em  up  on  com- 
mon for  the  mares  to  own  'em.  Sure  enough  the 
little  mares  runned  to  'em,  pretty  quick.  They 
did.  No  fear.  Oh!  They  owned  'em  every  one 
an'  gied  suck.  But  look-y-'see,  'twas  John  Scutt's 
own  little  mares,  every  mare  o'  'em,  with  the  S 
plain  marked  on  her  rump.  Oh  no !  There's  no 
felony,  Master  Philip.  An'  that  cleared  up  in  our 
minds  about  the  sheep." 

Master  Philip  grew  more  than  ever  impatient. 

"  To  use  your  own  words,  why  talk  and  explain 
so  much,  Cledworth?  I  am  not  the  jury." 

But  the  old  Isaac  was  not  again  to  be  put  out  of 
countenance.  His  own  words,  as  he  poured  them  out 
so  glibly  and  without  premeditation,  had  convinced 
him  beyond  a  doubt  of  the  security  of  his  position. 

"  What  good  to  talk  about  a  jury,  Master  Philip  ? 


DISCOMFITURE 


235 


There's  no  evidence.  You  can't  have  law  without 
evidence.  What  wi'  the  fluster  o'  the  little  mares, 
the  suckers  got  away.  We  couldn'  catch  'em, 
mares  or  suckers,  do  what  we  would.  They  be 
loose.  We  felt  wonderful  shy  to  come  back  an' 
face  John  Scutt.  I  said  so  at  the  time.  Didn'  I, 
Isaac  ?  An'  Isaac  up  an'  said,  '  Look  here,  father ! 
They  hooked  you  up  to  crook — why!'  Bless  my 
heart !  You  was  here  back  sheep-shearing,  Master 
Philip !  So  you  was.  Maybe  you  had  a-went  first 
through — anyway,  they  hooked  I  up  to  crook 
there,  up  to  that  very  self-same  beam,  a-tied  up 
in  a  sack-bag.  Why,  the  flour  idden  out  o'  my 
best  suit  yet — well,  my  second  best  then.  An' 
Isaac  said,  '  Let's  say  I  must  wed  wi'  Tamsin  to 
set  all  straight.'  An'  that's  the  prank  you  heard, 
Master  Philip.  Idden  it,  Isaac?  Too  bad,  I  own, 
for  it  brought  tears.  I  own  it.  Still,  Master  Philip, 
you  must  know  your  own  self,  there's  no  standing 
ground  for  law  without  evidence,  an'  that's  the 
true  explanation — 

"  Will  you  swear  that  ?  "  asked  Master  Philip. 

The  question  was  most  ironical,  but  Cledworth 
did  not  appear  to  mind. 

"  Take  my  oath  o'  it.  Why  not  ?  So  can 
Isaac  too,  for  certain  sure." 

"You  scoundrels!"  said  Philip  for  the  third 
time. 

In  great  haste  the  old  Isaac  pounced  upon  his  hat 
and  stick. 


236    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  Come,  Isaac.  This  is  no  place  for  we.  I  take 
no  such  words  from  any  man,  gentle  or  simple. 
I've  told  the  truth  and  I've  owned  myself  wrong. 
So  no  need  for  names.  It  is  not  the  way  of  a  gentle- 
man. I  sha'n't  stay  here  to  be  called  'em.  Not  a 
minute.  No.  Not  a  minute.  For  you  are  not 
the  gentleman,  Master  Philip,  that  your  father  was. 
Come,  Isaac.  Over  nothing  but  a  harmless  joke, 
too.  An'  when  a  man  has  spoken  out  and  owned 
himself  wrong — " 

Deeply  injured,  the  old  Isaac  Cledworth  departed 
in  haste.  With  impressive  dignity  and  a  great 
show  of  self-respect,  both  he  and  his  son  passed  out 
of  sight  and  hearing  beyond  the  walls  of  Hatch- 
barrow. 


237 

CHAPTER  VI 
HUMILIATION 

JOHN  Scutt  drew  a  deep  breath. 

He  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  suppose  that  the 
falsehoods  of  old  Isaac  could  have  found  any  accept- 
ance whatever  in  the  mind  of  Master  Philip.  He 
stood  there  no  better  than  a  convicted  thief,  knew 
it,  and  was  ashamed  of  it.  But  it  was  a  relief  to 
know  himself  beyond  danger  of  the  law. 

Jane  rose  from  her  seat.  In  this  mizmaze  of 
surprises  she  was  lost.  She  pressed  her  hands 
upon  her  forehead  trying  to  collect  her  scattered 
thoughts.  It  was  no  good.  They  evaded  her.  They 
were  all  in  conflict  and  upset  each  other.  As  one 
came  another  fled.  Her  bewildered  brain  could 
grasp  nothing  clearly.  Presently,  driven  by  the 
housewife's  instinct,  since  it  must  be  drawing 
near  to  supper  time,  and  Master  Philip  had  made 
a  journey,  and  Master  Philip  must  be  wanting 
something  to  eat,  she  went  to  the  dresser  and  began 
aimlessly  setting  plates  upon  the  table  board. 

"  Sit  down,  Master  Philip,"  said  John  Scutt, 
and  pushed  forward  a  chair.  He  was  very  quiet, 
very  crestfallen,  very  humble.  It  was  an  invitation 
to  a  conversation. 


238    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

"  No,  Scutt.     I  can't  sit  down,  thank  you." 

To  the  lover  of  Tamsin  the  owner  of  Hatch- 
barrow  had  been  Mr.  Scutt.  He  noted  the  change. 
But  the  manner  of  Master  Philip  was  so  sad,  that 
it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  he  spoke  in  pity  or  to 
a  man  of  inferior  position.  Besides,  John  Scutt 
had  always  been  Scutt  to  the  Piltons  when  they 
lived  at  Eddyford. 

"  Our  Tamsin  told  her  mother  about  your  com- 
ing  "  began  Scutt,  and  stopped — 

Master  Philip  was  not  there.  He  had  gone  to 
the  cupboard  and  came  back  bringing  his  hat  and 
whip. 

John  Scutt  tried  again. 

"  Yes.  Our  Tamsin,  as  I  was  saying,  told  her 
mother  and — and — mentioned  about  Court.  Master 
Philip,  'tis  the  best  of  land.  You  could  do  well 
at  Court." 

But  Master  Philip  gave  no  answer.  He  was 
paying  no  attention  whatever,  for  he  had  laid 
his  hand  on  Thomasine's  shoulder  and  was  whisper- 
ing something  in  her  ear.  Ah !  Then  he  would 
not  forsake  Tamsin,  cold  and  distant  as  he  might 
be  to  her  father.  John  Scutt  found  thus  much 
consolation  in  this  neglect  of  himself  and  began  to 
excuse  himself. 

"  You  mustn't  think  too  much  of  a  sheep  or  two, 
Master  Philip.  A  man  must  pick  up  a  few  now  and 
again  to  get  his  own  back.  Otherwise  he'd  soon 
come  to  ruin.  If  every  neighbour  was  in  jail  who 


HUMILIATION  239 

has  picked  up  a  sheep  in  a  sea-fog,  there'd  be  neither 
Cledworths  nor  anybody  else  but  the  women-folk 
in  church  of  a  Sunday." 

"  There  is  no  defence,"  replied  Master  Philip 
coldly.  Then,  looking  upon  the  changed  bearing 
of  the  man  whom  he  had  always  respected,  he  could 
not  forbear  a  lament.  "  And  I  took  John  Scutt 
to  be  as  honest  a  man  as  I  know." 

The  owner  of  Hatchbarrow  had  lost  his  sharp, 
decisive  manner.  He  began  to  plead  with  the 
humility  of  a  man  who  has  seen  better  days  and 
fallen  into  misfortune. 

"  It  can  never  be  known,  Master  Philip,"  he 
whispered  eagerly.  "  The  Cledworths  can  never 
open  their  mouths." 

"  You  know  it.  I  know  it.  If  we  all  know  it 
ourselves,  is  not  that  enough?  "  asked  Master 
Philip  dryly. 

"  Tis  no  fault  o'  our  Tamsin's.  We  should 
have  done  no  wrong,  not  so  much  as  a  penny-piece, 
if  we  had  gone  always  according  to  her  mind.  All 
our  doings  might  be  open  as  the  day  then.  I 
wouldn'  have  her  to  suffer  so  much  as  one  sigh. 
You  marry  our  Tamsin,  Master  Philip.  Marry 
her.  She's  good  as  gold  an'  better.  I  give  Hatch- 
barrow  to  Tamsin  free  the  day  of  her  marriage." 

"  I  cannot  possibly  make  terms  with  you, 
Scutt.  If  you  think  of  it,  you  must  recognize 
that,"  replied  Master  Philip. 

"  You  take  Court,  sir.     You'll  have  both  Court 


240    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

and  Hatchbarrow.  Tis  a  holding  for  a  gentleman. 
Twice  as  much  as  your  father  had.  You  do  love 
hunting.  You  will  be  able  to  hunt  as  much  as  you 
like." 

Master  Philip  shook  his  head. 
"  Or  I'll  give  Hatchbarrow  to  our  Tamsin  and  rent 
it  of  you  if  you  like  that  better.  Or  I'll  take  Court. 
You  can  live  in  which  house  you  like  best,  Master 
Philip !  Don't  go,  sir.  To  the  day  o'  my  death, 
I'll  be  your  man  for  no  more  than  a  living,  sooner 
than  Tamsin  should  be  hurt.  Both  Jane  and  I  will 
work  for  'ee  both — for  a  roof,  an'  clothes  an'  keep. 
We  can't  want  no  more.  What  good  could  more  do 
us  ?  For  a  roof,  an'  clothes  an'  keep,  Master  Philip, 
till  we  do  drop  of  old  age,  Master  Philip — Master 
Philip- 
It  was  not  Master  Philip  who  had  moved. 
Thomasine  had  risen  from  her  chair.  To  hear  her 
father — he!  who  had  never  been  anything  but 
masterful  and  self-assertive  to  any  but  herself — 
begging  to  be  nobody,  willing  to  part  with  every- 
thing, after  his  years  of  hard  work  and  hard  dealing, 
filled  her  heart  with  deep  pity.  His  humiliation, 
when  he  slunk  away  from  her  in  the  barton, 
haunted  her  memory.  Then  she  saw  the  wreck  of 
all  that  her  imagination  and  affection  had  pictured 
him  to  be.  Now  her  soul  perceived  only  his  love  for 
her  and  his  contrition.  Hopeless  and  broken-hearted, 
by  no  fault  of  her  own,  she  saw  him  conscience- 
stricken  and  broken-spirited  by  self-reproach. 


HUMILIATION  241 

Thomasine  loved  her.  father.  They  had  always 
loved  each  other — not  with  sentiment  and  caresses, 
for  his  rugged  nature  did  not  ask  for  them,  but 
with  unspoken,  unwavering  affection.  He  had 
sinned  for  love  of  her.  Moved  by  an  impulse  of 
infinite  pity,  she  ran  to  him  and  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  £'J 

"  Don't,  father,"  she  sobbed.  "  You  do  not 
understand." 

Still  less  did  John  Scutt  understand,  but  con- 
tinued more  eagerly. 

"  There's  all  the  stock,  Master  Philip.  I  never 
afore  in  my  life  had  such  a  clean  handsome  lot  o' 
stock  nor  so  much.  An'  the  best  harvest  for 
twenty  year.  There  a  stack  o'  wheat  more  than 
ever  was,  the  best  year  ever  known.  All — 

But  Master  Philip  had  turned  away  and  was  pay- 
ing no  heed. 

"  Come  and  speak  to  me,  Thomasine.  Come  at 
least  to  say  '  Good-bye.'  ' 

Thomasine  was  still  clinging  to  her  father— 

"  Come,  Thomasine." 

And  Jane  came  from  her  plates  and  the  table 
that  was  never  to  be  laid,  and,  whilst  timidly 
stroking  Tamsin's  arm,  added  in  her  ear  a  word  of 
counsel. 

"  Go  an'  talk  to  Master  Philip,  chile.  Sure  he 
do  deserve  our  thanks." 

Good-bye !     Good-bye !     indeed ! 

It  was  the  hardest  trial  of  all,  but  it  must  be  done. 

R 


242    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

Thomasine  yielded  to  her  mother's  touch  and  left 
her  father.  Philip  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  and 
together  they  went  out  into  the  clear  starlight  and 
the  cold  wind,  and  closed  the  door  behind  them. 


243 

CHAPTER  VII 
ONCE  MORE  THE  HEARTH 

JOHN  and  Jane  sat  down  before  the  hearth  as 
they  did  on  the  night  of  the  sheep-shearing,  when 
they  first  knew  that  Hatchbarrow  was  bought. 

Jane  moaned  and  uttered  disconnected  thoughts. 
Not  intentionally  for  the  ear  of  John,  but  because 
they  would  be  uttered. 

"  Ah !  We've  a-ruined  all.  Wicked  sinners  that 
we  be!  Th'  Almighty  put  it  all  in  reach  o'  the 
labour  of  our  hands — every  bit  an'  crumb,  just  to 
our  wish  an'  liking — but  we  ourselves  have  a-dashed 
it  to  the  ground.  We  must  have  Hatchbarrow  for 
our  own.  No  matter  how.  An'  Hatchbarrow  we've 
a-got — an'  a  bellyful  o'  trouble  all  the  same.  What 
did  I  tell  'ee,  John  ?  Our  Tamsin  is  a  maid  to  die 
for  love.  I  have  a-said  it.  An'  I  do  know  it.  Ah ! 
Wear  the  willow!  Master  Philip'll  never  wed  wi' 
her  now.  Wear  the  willow — pine  an'  die.  I  can 
see  it  clear." 

With  Jane  alone,  John  found  his  old  self. 

"  So  clear  as  a  owl  in  the  daylight,"  he  said 
roughly.  "  Master  Philip  is  a  man,  an'  I  don't 
doubt  a  man  of  his  word.  He'd  marry  our  Tam- 
sin. Tis  we  an'  ours  that  he  won't  touch  o'.  Tis 

R  2 


244    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

our  Tamsin  is  going  to  say  '  No '  to  he.  Words 
won't  change  her.  What  her  mind  do  find  right 
she'll  do.  Tis  good-bye  for  Master  Philip." 

"  'Tis  good-bye  all,  to  my  mind,  all  we  ever 
hoped  for.  All  our  wishes,  John,  all  flowered. 
Every  one  o'  'em  kerned — every  one  o'  'em  riped 
and  in  the  end  every  one  'o  'em  have  a-slipped  shell, 
like  nuts  in  the  wind.  An'  our  Tamsin  do  love  un — 
love  un  like  life.  She'll  take  un,  John.  She'll  take 
un.  I  do  know  she'll  take  un." 

"  Never.     Not  in  this  world." 

"  But  she  do  love  un.  An'  he'll  use  words — 
words  o'  love.  There's  words  o'  love  from  the 
tongue  of  a  man,  an'  a  maid  in  love  can't  help 
herself." 

"  She'll  never  take  un." 

"  She  must !     She  must !  "  wailed  Jane. 

"  Tis  as  you  do  say,  Jane,  Tamsin  is  so  nice  in 
her  mind  like.  She'll  see  herself  soiled  by  we 
There's  no  real,  everlasting  stain  'pon  she." 

"  There  can't !  There  never  can't !  "  shrieked 
Jane. 

"  But  she'll  see  herself  soiled.  She'll  grieve  an' 
cry,  like  she  did  as  a  chile,  do  'ee  mind?  when  she 
was  out  to  play  in  barton  an'  got  the  dung  'pon  her 
little  hands." 

"An'  none  to  run  to  now,"  moaned  Jane.  "For, 
so  sure  as  God's  in  Heaven,  we  be  the  dung.  Wicked 
sinners  when  all  went  well.  An'  we  be  nothing 
better  'an  dung,  John.  " 


ONCE  MORE  THE  HEARTH          245 

She  bent  forward  like  one  in  intense  pain,  until 
her  face  almost  touched  her  knees,  and  rocked  to  and 
fro  and  wept. 

"  An'  none  to  run  to  now,"  she  sighed  between 
her  sobs. 

Suddenly,  as  if  by  an  inspiration,  she  stood 
upright.  She  raised  her  head.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  great  oaken  beam,  and  in  a  loud 
voice,  Jane  prayed. 

"Oh!  God  A'mighty,  join  'em.  Join  'em,  dear 
God  A'mighty,  join  'em.  Join  'em  one." 

And  just  as  hastily,  alarmed,  ashamed  in  the 
presence  of  John,  she  sat  down  again  and  wept. 

For  a  long  time  they  did  not  speak,  but  Jane  was 
the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Hark !     Here  she  is." 

They  listened.  It  must  have  been  the  wind  in 
the  chimney,  for  Tamsin  did  not  come. 

"  They  must  be  o'  one  mind,  sure,"  said  John  in 
a  low  voice.  "  Our  Tamsin  could  never  bide  so 
long,  unless  they  was  agreed." 

And  still  the  time  passed  on.  They  became 
restless,  and  within  the  heart  of  each  of  them  arose 
fears  too  terrible  even  to  mention.  Each  one 
thought  of  going  out  to  look.  Each  one  feared  to 
be  the  first  to  speak  the  thought. 

But  Tamsin  came. 

She  lifted  the  latch,  almost  as  if  by  stealth,  and 
crept  in  noiselessly  and  without  a  word.  The 
traces  of  her  struggle  might  still  be  seen  upon  her 


246    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

cheeks,  and  she  was  pale  with  the  deathlike  white  of 
a  half -burnt  ashen  log  when  the  fire  has  gone  out. 
But  Thomasine  was  self-controlled.  She  had  brought 
herself  to  a  determination  and  was  calm — so  calm, 
that,  with  a  glance  at  the  half -set  table  board,  she 
began  to  occupy  herself  with  household  work. 

Neither  her  father  nor  her  mother  could  summon 
the  courage  to  ask  of  Tamsin  what  had  taken 
place,  but  Jane's  black  eyes  almost  glittered  as 
they  watched  her  eagerly  and  scanned  every 
movement. 

There  was  no  longer  a  ring  on  Tamsin's  finger. 


EPILOGUE 


249 


EPILOGUE 

IT  was  an  afternoon  towards  the  middle  of  Novem- 
ber. Looked  at  from  below,  the  Beacon  Head  was 
scarcely  visible  behind  its  wreath  of  cloud.  Yet 
in  the  morning,  soon  after  light,  two  people,  a 
middle-aged  man  and  woman,  had  toiled  up  the 
crooked,  stony  path,  and  still  they  waited  hour 
after  hour  in  the  dim,  comfortless  mist. 

At  times  during  the  day  a  drizzling  rain  had 
fallen,  so  fine  that  it  was  only  evident  in  the  beads 
of  moisture  that  gathered  like  dew  on  the  old 
russet-green  jacket  of  the  man  and  the  woollen 
shawl  of  the  woman.  Whenever  the  cloud  promised 
to  clear,  they  climbed  to  the  very  summit  of  the  heap 
of  stones  that  once  served  as  a  beacon  hearth,  knit  their 
brows,  and  stared  intently  in  the  direction  of  the  sea. 
When  the  crest  of  the  hill  became  hopelessly  wrapt  in 
mist,  and  they  could  see  nothing,  in  very  weariness 
they  sat  down  on  the  great  boulder  by  the  broken  post. 

"  Tis  no  good,"  said  the  man.  "  We  shall  but 
get  wet  to  the  skin  an'  cold  to  the  bone." 

"  We  can  but  stop,"  sighed  the  woman. 

At  rare  intervals  a  gleam  of  sunlight  pierced  a  way 
between  the  clouds  and  lighted  up  both  hills  and  sea. 
Once,  for  a  brief  interval,  the  day  became  quite  clear. 

"  Maybe  'tis  not  too  late,  Jane,"  said  the  man, 
"  if  it  should  but  hold  bright." 

"  Maybe,"  sighed  the  woman. 

More  cloud,  more  mist,  more  drizzle  came  drifting 


250    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

up  to  cling  around  the  headlands,  and  everything 
was  lost  in  haze. 

"  'Tis  going  to  end  in  a  sea-fog,"  said  the  man 
gloomily. 

During  the  bright  intervals  there  was  usually 
some  craft  in  sight.  They  knew  nothing  about  ships. 
Such  as  became  unveiled  when  the  mist  lifted  they 
discussed  ignorantly,  querulously,  even  angrily. 

"There,  John,  there.    Sure  now,  that  must  be  it." 
The  woman  pointed  eagerly  with  her  lean  brown  finger. 
"  Don't  be  a  fool.     She's  only  for  Barnstaple  or 
Bideford.    That's — to  what  we  do  look  for — that's 
no  more  'an  a — a  walnut  shell." 
"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 
"  See,  can't  I  ?  " 
"  But  how  can  you  tell?  " 
"  Got  eyes,  I  s'pose." 

The  woman  was  never  satisfied  that  the  man  knew. 
Early  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  end  of  one  of  their 
discussions,  a  wayfarer  came  climbing  over  the  hill. 
They  were  greatly  at  odds,  and  the  man  had  sworn 
at  her  for  a  fool.  But  the  woman  could  not  keep 
silence.  Pointing  away  over  the  waters,  she  made 
bold  to  stop  the  stranger  and  put  him  questions  in 
a  manner  to  induce  him  to  answer  as  she  wished. 

"  Wouldn'  that  be  a  very  big  ship,  sir  ?  A  ship  out  o' 
Bristol,  sir  ?  Maybe  for  America  ?  Can  you  tell  me  ?  " 
To  see  her  half  wild  with  eagerness  the  stranger 
smiled,  but  he  laughed  outright  as  he  looked  at  the 
patched  brown  sail. 

"  That  ?     That's  nothing  but  some  old  tub  of  a 
coasting  schooner,"  said  he. 


EPILOGUE  251 

"  What  did  I  say,  Jane  ?  Only  you  can't  listen 
to  sense,"  said  the  man  roughly. 

"  But  there  is  a  fine  ship  expected  down.  I 
passed  a  look-out  place  a  mile  back.  The  man  was 
watching  for  her — a  fine  clipper  ship — her  first 
voyage.  He  thought,  judging  by  wind  and  tide, 
she  ought  to  have  been  down  before  this." 

"  Then  she's  not  passed  by  unbeknown." 

The  woman's  voice  cracked  with  anxiety,  but 
the  man,  now  as  eager  as  herself,  held  up  his  hand 
to  silence  her,  then  pushed  her  aside  and  took  her 
place. 

"  Maybe  the  fog  have  a-kept  her  back  ?  " 

"  There's  no  fog  to  stop  her,"  explained  the 
stranger.  "It  is  clear  as  noon  down  below  under 
the  clouds  that  gather  around  the  hill  top." 

"  Then  she  can't  ha'  gone  by  unbeknown,"  re- 
iterated the  woman. 

"  No.     He  would  have  seen  her." 

"  Certain  sure,  must  be  the  one,"  sighed  she, 
with  a  sinking  of  the  heart. 

"  'Tis  her  first  voyage,  so  he  told  me.  '  The 
Bonaventure,'  he  said  was  her  name " 

"  That's  she !  "  cried  the  man. 

"  That's  she !  "  echoed  the  woman.  "  The  Bony 
— the  Bony  what,  young  man?  Say  it  again." 

"  '  The  Bonaventure.'  " 

"  Spell  it  out,"  cried  the  woman. 

The  stranger  spelt  it.  He  was  so  amused  he  almost 
laughed  outright,  but  having  no  more  to  tell  them, 
he  only  smiled,  nodded  good-day  and  trudged  on  his 
way. 


252    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

The  man  seized  the  woman  by  the  arm,  and  half 
led,  half  pushed  her  back  to  the  boulder. 

"  Sit  down,  Jane.  Read  out  the  letter  once 
again." 

Jane  fumbled  in  her  pocket,  and  at  last  drew 
forth  a  letter  creased  and  torn  with  many  readings — 
in  places  almost  blotted  out  with  contrite  tears. 
The  drifting  cloud  closed  over  them.  The  drizzling 
rain  came  on  again,  and  cast  a  mist  on  her  glasses 
as  she  slowly  read: 

"  '  My  dear  Mother, 

By  the  time  you  get  this  I  shall  be  married  to 
Philip.  Nobody  knows  it.  We  have  not  told 
a  soul,  or  be  sure,  dear  mother,  I  should  have 
told  you  instead  of  letting  you  believe  I  was  only 
going  for  a  visit  to  Netherton-town.  We  are  on 
our  way  to  be  married  by  licence  in  a  church  at 
Bristol.  It  is  far  better  so.  For  in  her  heart 
Mrs.  Pilton  was  very  much  opposed  to  it,  and 
if  Philip  had  taken  a  farm,  it  would  not  have  been 
pleasant  to  be  so  near  her.' ' 

"  That's  our  Tamsin  all  over,"  interrupted  the 
man.  "  There's  never  a  word  o'  fault  wi'  we." 

" '  I  shall  always  love  you,  dear  father  and 
mother,  for  all  the  good  you  have  meant  for  me 
and  the  schooling  you  gave  me.  We  are  sailing 
for  America,  not  to  strangers,  but  to  some  of 
Philip's  relations.  We  are  going  in  a  new  ship 
called  "The  Bona venture,"  that  has  never  been 
to  sea  before,  to  a  new  country  to  make  a  way 
for  ourselves.  We  shall  pass  so  near  to  Hatch- 


EPILOGUE  253 

barrow  and  yet  never  see  it.  That  will  be  on 
Thursday,  not  later  than  noon.  We  shall  know 
the  place  by  the  Beacon  Head,  and  Philip  and 
I  shall  watch  it  out  of  sight.  If  you  and  father 
are  there,  you  will  know  the  ship  because  there 
cannot  be  another  on  that  day  so  big.  With 
a  fair  wind,  they  say,  we  shall  be  much  earlier. 
Go  up  to  the  top  and  wish  us  well  until  we  see 
each  other  again.  For  I  shall  come  back.  Philip 
says  if  all  goes  as  well  as  he  hopes,  we  will  come 
back  in  five  years.  And  I  shall  write  very  soon. 
I  shall  always  write  to  you.  And  I  shall  be 
happy,  dear  mother,  very  happy,  for  Philip  and 
I  love  one  another  heart  and  soul.  I  could  not 
give  him  up.  He  would  not  let  me  give  him  up, 
and  I  could  not  ask  him  to  stay,  for  he  was  bent 
on  going.  So  you  must  forgive  me,  mother,  and 
be  sure  I  shall  come  back '  ' 

Choked  with  tears,  she  broke  off  in  her  reading. 
"  But  she'll  be  happy,"  she  cried.  "  She've  got 
her  love.     Our  Tamsin'll  be  happy." 
"  Read  on,"  said  the  man  sternly. 

" '  There  is  only  one  thing,  dear  mother  and 
father,  and  I  do  not  know  how  it  can  be  done. 
I  should  be  so  glad  if  you  could  make  amends. 
If  you  could  think  of  some  way  to  give  to  others 
until  all  is  fair,  you  would  ease  your  minds  and 
mine.  Try  to  think  of  a  plan  to  make  everything 
honest  that  was  wrong.  If  there  is  no  other  way 
give  it  to  those  that  want.  And  when  I  come 
back  all  will  be  past  and  gone.  And,  dear  mother, 


254    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

there  is  one  thing  I  want  you  to  do  for  me.  Keep 
my  room  all  ready,  with  nothing  altered;  just 
as  if  you  were  looking  for  me  to  walk  in  to- 
morrow from  Netherton-town.  For  we  shall 
get  on,  and  I  shall  come,  or  perhaps  if  all  turns 
out  well  here,  if  you  should  not  any  longer  be 
happy  at  Hatchbarrow,  you  could  come  here " 

"  Hark !  "  suddenly  interrupted  the  man. 

He  had  bent  his  head  to  listen,  for  in  the  dense 
mist  around  them  it  had  been  no  good  to  stare  in 
the  direction  of  the  sea. 

"  There  she  is." 

The  stranger  was  calling  from  the  distance  and 
pointing  over  the  cliff. 

"  That's  the  ship.     That's  '  The  Bonaventure.'  " 

The  rain  was  still  falling  upon  them,  but  a  rift  had 
broken  in  the  fog,  making,  as  it  were,  an  open  window 
towards  the  sea,  through  which  they  could  look  upon 
a  stretch  of  smooth  water  blue  as  the  hidden  sky. 

Not  more  than  a  mile  from  the  shore,  but  just 
emerged  from  behind  a  jutting  peninsula  of  cliffs, 
was  a  ship  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  spread  to 
the  light  breeze.  The  sun  shone  full  upon  her,  and 
her  maiden  sails,  bent  from  a  fair  wind,  were  white 
as  the  round  breasts  of  a  sunlit  April  cloud.  They 
could  see  her  clearly — glorified  both  by  the  sun- 
light which  was  hers  and  the  cloud  that  appeared 
to  encompass  her — spars  and  rigging,  even  the 
group  of  people  upon  her  deck.  Although  she 
scarcely  seemed  to  move,  a  ripple  of  white  foam 
parted  before  her  bows. 


EPILOGUE  255 

The  woman  jumped  to  her  feet  and  stood  trans- 
fixed as  if  astonished  at  the  vision.  Then  tears 
rushed  into  her  eyes. 

The  man  only  said: 

"Our  Tamsin!" 

"  But  she  is  happy,  as  I  said.  I  can  see  it.  In  tears 
she  may  be — but  she's  happy — happy  at  heart." 

They  stared  and  stared,  until  very  slowly  a  dark 
mass,  drifting  across  the  sea,  blotted  out  the  window 
and  swallowed  the  vision  up. 

The  man  rose  from  the  boulder,  turned  away  and 
started  homewards. 

"  Come  along,  Jane,"  he  said  in  a  voice  husky 
and  low.  "  There's  no  more.  I  always  said  it 
would  end  in  a  sea-fog." 

Down  the  hill,  together,  yet  apart,  the  man  some 
dozen  yards  in  advance  of  the  woman,  they  trudged, 
back  to  the  homestead  that  came  into  view  as  they 
descended  out  of  the  cloud. 

The  woman  cried  her  thoughts  after  the  man, 
who  said  nothing. 

"  She's  gone.  Our  Tamsin's  gone.  But  she's 
gone  to  happiness.  We  drove  her  away  our  own 
selves.  She  was  the  light  and  soul  o'  the  house. 
But  we  drove  her  away.  We  be  sinners.  Sinners 
both.  We  be  transgressors.  All  in  haste  to  be 
rich,  we've  a-lost  an'  drove  away  our  soul  by  our 
sins.  God  A'mighty  forgie  us.  Sinners.  Sinners 
we  be.  An'  we  drove  her  away — the  light  an'  the 
soul.  Ah!  The  joy  o'  us!  She's  gone.  'Tis 
to  me  as  if  the  soul  was  fled  an'  the  body  not  dead. 
An  that's  how  the  house'll  be  as  I  do  move  about  to 


256    THE  REVENUES  OF  THE  WICKED 

my  work.      But  she's  happy.     Happy  an'  good — 
she  do  carry  her  happiness  where  she  do  go " 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  the  man,  turning  silently 
away,  strode  across  a  field  to  cut  a  truss  of  hay  for 
his  stock.  "  Amends,"  muttered  he.  "  How  can 
a  man  bear  in  mind  to  make  amends?  There  was 
none  ever  missed  it." 

The  hay  was  sweet  and  green.  It  smelt  as  fragrant 
as  a  meadow  in  June.  But  the  man  did  not  notice  it. 
He  could  not  see  how  to  make  amends  or  how  to  get 
free.  For  the  moment  he  saw  nothing  before  him 
but  discontent  with  Hatchbarrow,  the  drudgery  of 
the  farm  work  and  the  enmity  of  the  Cledworths. 

The  woman  kept  on  to  the  house.  All  the  while,  in 
detached  sentences,  she  continued  talking  to  herself. 

"  Ay,  she's  gone.     Gone  to  her  love 

"  Come  back,  Tamsin,  my  dear,  the  light  an'  the 
soul  o'  us.  Come  back  to  find  all  ready 

"  Lord  help  me !  There  shall  never  a  cobweb 
hang  the  day  through 

"  I'll  sweep  un,  an'  dust  un,  day  by  day,  wi'  my 
own  hands,  I  will 

"  I'll  scrub  un  out  'pon  my  knees  every  week  o' 
my  life 

"  I'll  have  mason  to  white  un  out  every  lady-day 
so  reg'lar  as  rent 

"  Be  happy,  Tamsin,  my  dear !  Ah !  you  can, 
for  you  do  carry  it  in  your  heart.  Come  back, 
Tamsin,  my  dear.  Come  back,  little  soul.  You've 
a- wrote  it — you  will — an'  I  know  you  will " 

And  so,  not  without  faith,  Jane  Scutt  disappeared 
within  Hatchbarrow  porch. 


000 


127  697 


